


the fall of this empire will be loud

by elesssar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Cold War, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 00:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 83,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10450485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elesssar/pseuds/elesssar
Summary: In 1991, the Soviet Union collapses. In 1989, the Berlin wall falls. In 1987, Viktor Nikiforov, iconic figure skater and darling of the USSR, defects to the United States. In 1986, Yuuri Katsuki falls in love.





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> permission to use a line from [this poem](http://crimescened.tumblr.com/post/157959571483/crimescened-i-you-didnt-get-what-you-wanted) as the title kindly granted by the author!  
> thanks to my beta, aka my flatmate maddie  
> tags will be updated, rating will change systematically
> 
> art & things!!!!  
> [ This wonderful cover](http://paledreamsblackmoths.tumblr.com/post/163696757100/when-yuuri-first-started-skating-six-years-ago) has been designed for the fic  
> [ this gorgeous moodboard ](https://vntya.tumblr.com/post/167265065913/shemakesmeforget-the-fall-of-this-empire-will)  
> [ and _this_ gorgeous moodboard](https://vntya.tumblr.com/post/167465911403/ilreleonewikia13-yuri-on-ice-meme-favorite)  
>  plus there's also [ my pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.nz/elesssar/w-the-fall-of-this-empire/) for this fic  
> 

Transcript of interview 03.11.2017

 

_F. Grenoble, V. Nikiforov_

 

F.G: It’s been thirty years now since what was arguably one of the most high profile Soviet defections in history.

V.N: Are you talking about me? [laughs]

F.G: Do you not agree?

V.N: Oh I do! It just makes me laugh now, you know?

F.G: The world is certainly a very different place now than it was in 1987.

V.N: I like it better, I think. Every month there’s some amazing scientific achievement, or some new bit of technology invented. They’re on, what, the iPhone 8 now?

F.G: Not quite – that comes out in September I think.

V.N: Jesus. Yuuri will probably make me upgrade. I don’t know _why_ – this one works perfectly fine! The screen is cracked, but it’s fine, see!

F.G: The screen is _quite_ cracked.

V.N: [laughs] Ah well, it happens. Or so Yuuri tells me.

F.G: Is there anything you really miss about the eighties?

V.N: My skating career! [laughs]. No, I don’t know – the music I think. I enjoyed the fashion at the time, but looking back, maybe not so much.

F.G: You were quite stylish back then.

V.N: Do you think?

F.G: I do!

V.N: Well in that case, thank you very much!

F.G: Alright, moving on – sadly – it’s been thirty years since 1987, when you so famously defected from the USSR during the World Championships in Cincinnati. Looking back, how do you feel about that moment?

V.N: [pause] I do think about it a lot. It was a bit of a long moment, you know? The most terrifying hour of my life, followed by probably the happiest. I think of it less these days, but sometimes I just can’t avoid it. Like now. Oh – I don’t mind that you’re interviewing me obviously! It’s just that it seems I can’t just be _me_ without also being Viktor Nikiforov the Soviet darling, Viktor Nikiforov the political refugee…

F.G: Viktor Nikiforov the gay icon?

V.N: [laughs] sure, that too! I wasn’t then, but I suppose I am now, aren’t I?

F.G: ‘Out’ magazine named you in the top twenty of their ‘most influential LGBT figures’ list last year.

V.N: Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I don’t know – Am I that influential?

F.G: Least of all for holding the unbroken record for most gold medals attained by a male singles figure skater, yes.

V.N: And I suppose now that people know the whole story…

F.G: Exactly. Speaking of – where would you say it all started?

V.N: Which ‘all’?

F.G: If you look at your life as a whole, where does your story start?

V.N: Probably in 1961, when I was born! But…if you mean the story of the defection and Yuuri and the whole ‘1989’ thing…?

F.G: I do.

V.N: Then I suppose it started in March, 1985. That was Yuuri’s first World Championship.


	2. one - tokyo

March 3rd, 1985 – TOKYO, JAPAN  


 

There is sweat everywhere. He is drowning in it – _actually_ drowning. As in, if he opens his mouth, he will _die_. Fortunately, all of the said sweat is his own. Which negates the grossness of it, but only barely. Yuuri unzips his jacket and tosses it in the direction of the barrier.

Celestino watches the obnoxious blue garment fall to the floor with his eyebrows raised. His sweatband has slipped, and an unruly curl of salt-and-pepper hair has shot upwards like a television antennae.

“I am not,” he says, “picking that up.”

Yuuri picks it up himself, and tosses it over the edge. Around him on the ice, a handful of skaters from group one are still moving across the ice. The short program is not until tomorrow, but little tendrils of nerves are already making themselves felt in Yuuri’s stomach. He brushes a hand against his belly absently, and Celestino notices.

“Have you been binge-eating again?” he asks.

“Wha – no?” Yuuri tries very hard to make himself sound _not guilty_. Celestino sighs, and Yuuri knows he has failed.

“It’ll be fine,” Yuuri mumbles. He presses his palms flat against the top of the barrier, and then pushes himself backwards.

“I’m going to try the Salchow one more time,” he says as he skates backwards across the rough ice. He sees Celestino’s lips moving – his coach is probably telling him not to bother – but Yuuri cannot hear him. Thus, he is able to ignore any rude and undoubtedly true things that Celestino may be saying.

Yuuri continues to skate backwards, crossing his feet in wide sweeps across the ice as he moves in an arc. No one is watching him except Celestino, everyone is busy doing their own thing, and yet – he just can’t get comfortable. But he has the momentum now.

He two-foots the entry and makes the full three rotations, but even as he lands he is shaking his head. A two-footed entry is _cheating_ , and he can’t do it in competition, and if the drowning-in-sweat thing doesn’t kill him first, then trying that pathetic shambles of a triple salchow in competition certainly would.

Defeated, Yuuri skates back to his coach.

“Don’t say it,” Yuuri says as he holds his hands out for the skate guards that Celestino is brandishing at him, “I already know.”

“Fine,” Celestino says, a little snippily, “you’ll be keeping it as the double, then.”

There is no room for argument. Yuuri shrugs one shoulder, and then the other. This is not actually in response to Celestino – he is putting his jacket back on. Celestino takes it as his answer all the same, and claps Yuuri’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, kid,” he says, “you have your triple axel.”

On his way out of the arena, Yuuri is waylaid by his rink mate Phichit. The Thai-American skater is wearing the largest and _pinkest_ windbreaker Yuuri has ever seen.

“You know they can probably you see from Mars?” Yuuri says, as Phichit flips the hood over his head.

“Damn,” Phichit says. He tugs on the little toggles and tightens the hood, until his face is a little moon surrounded by vibrant cerise. The automatic glass doors slide open with a hiss and the boys are barraged by the rainstorm, “I wanted to blend in!”

“Phichit, you’ve never blended in a day in your life. Have you seen your own short programme costume?”

“What, the one covered in glitter?” Phichit has to raise his voice to be heard over the rain. He protects his skate bag with his body, trying to keep it as dry as possible. This is counterproductive, seeing as his bag is waterproof.

All that Yuuri can see of his face is the edge of his cheek, dimpled by his broad and no doubt facetious grin.

“That would be the one,” Yuuri says dryly. “Are you heading back to the hotel?”

“Wha – _no_!” Phichit is affronted. Yuuri makes a ‘pfft’ noise, and fights to keep his own hood over his head.

“What are you going to do then?”

“ _We_ – note the emphasis, Katsuki – are going to go and _experience Japan_.”

“We _are_ experiencing Japan,” Yuuri stops in the middle of the pavement and gestures around them at the torrential downpour. A harried and very soggy looking businessman who had been walking behind him dives quickly to the side to avoid running Yuuri down, and he shoots an irritated glare over his shoulder. Phichit giggles – or at least Yuuri assumes that he giggles, seeing as the rain is loud enough to cancel most noises quieter than the sound of a freight train.

“Come _on_ ,” Phichit yells and, seizing Yuuri’s arm, starts to tug him down the street and away from the beckoning doors of their hotel. He glances quickly both ways before crossing the street and tugging Yuuri into a little café.

It’s not quite ‘experiencing Japan’, since the café is decorated all over with pictures of the United States, but Yuuri supposes that it will do. It _is_ at least exponentially quieter in here.

“Bah,” Phichit removes his coat. Yuuri is a little surprised to find that he is dressed like a normal person underneath the monstrosity.

They sit, and order tea. Phichit’s Japanese is terrible, but it entertains Yuuri to watch him struggle. Eventually, when Phichit has kicked him in the knee four time and the ankle twice, Yuuri takes over and tells their waitress that they’ll take a pot of green tea, thank you very much.

“Was that so hard?” Phichit asks him, with narrowed eyes.

“Please,” Yuuri says, “the short program is tomorrow. Watching you suffer is probably the closest emotion to joy I’ll be feeling for a sold three days.”

“Okay, firstly,” Phichit folds his arms and glares across the table, “you’re an asshole. Just by the way.”

“Thanks,”

“And secondly, don’t be nervous!”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says again. He holds his palms up, pretends like he’s seeing them for the first time, “that just totally cleared up all my nerves! Who’d’ve thought?”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Phichit rolls his eyes, “Yuuri, you’re one of the best skaters out! If you’d stayed in Japan you’d probably be _the_ top skater in the JSF – which, I saw that letter they sent you, by the way, so I know they want you – and as it is, you’re one of America’s best. Sure, be nervous all you like, but don’t be so emo about it.”

Sometimes Phichit knows just the right thing to say. Sometimes…not so much.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.

“What,” Phichit quirks an eyebrow, “just okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, “because I can’t be bothered arguing with you about anxiety, so…”

When Phichit frowns, his eyebrows get so close together they basically form a monobrow. Usually, Yuuri finds this quite entertaining. However, his nerves really are starting to settle in, so he’s very glad when the waitress arrives with their tea. Yuuri thanks her quietly, and pours himself and Phichit a cup. Phichit doesn’t talk – always something to be suspicious of – just wraps his hands around the clay cup and looks out of the window. Yuuri follows his gaze and raises his cup absently to his lips.

From here, they can see the entrance to their hotel. There is a group of people standing in the doorway underneath a canopy of umbrellas. One of the figures detaches itself from the group and walks to the edge of the overhang, peering up at the sky. The person is vaguely familiar. Yuuri takes another sip of his tea – and then immediately chokes on it.

A strong gust of wind has blown off the hood of the curious bystander, and the flash of silver hair is distinctive even from across the road in a thunderstorm.

“Yuuri?” Phichit asks in concern.

“Vi- ikt – oh!” Yuuri coughs.

“No-o,” Phichit shakes his head, “I’m Phichit?”

“No, dumbass,” Yuuri gasps, as he gets his breath back. He jabs a finger against the glass, pointing to the group – who he now realises must be the Soviet entourage.

“Ooh,” Phichit cranes his neck to get a better look.

Yuuri feels a little faint. This could very probably be due to asphyxiation, but he prefers to think that it’s just the sight of his long-time idol Viktor Nikiforov.

“I forgot he was competing,” Yuuri admits weakly.

“What – Yuuri, he’s the top figure skater in the world, how could you _possibly_ forget that he would be competing?”  
“Okay, I didn’t _forget_ ,” Yuuri amends. A pair of black sedans have now pulled up in front of the hotel, and the group have been blocked from view. Yuuri does not tear his eyes away though – just in case.

“I just, you know,” he continues absently, “didn’t quite equate ‘competing in the world championships’ with ‘seeing Viktor Nikiforov in real life’.”

“Okay, that’s understandable,” Phichit allows. He looks between the sedans and Yuuri slowly. Yuuri very deliberately refuses to look at him.

“You’re so obvious, Yuuri,” Phichit says. Yuuri can hear the smile in his voice.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Yuuri says. He takes another mouthful of tea, and watches – a little mournfully – as team USSR’s cars roll away. The front of the hotel is abandoned now.

“Congratulations, you now have my full and undivided attention again,” Yuuri tells his friend as he finally turns back to look at him.

Phichit is sitting with his legs crossed, leaning back in his chair, and smirking.

“I love how gay you are, Yuuri,” he says.

“Um!” Yuuri yelps, “can you maybe not announce that? So loudly? In public?”

“Sorry,” Phichit lowers his – admittedly already quite quiet – voice, “I just – you’re so cute? Your crush on Viktor? You are _sprung_.”

“I think you mean _tragic_ ,” Yuuri amends. Because it is – totally tragic.

When Yuuri first started skating six years ago, Viktor was 16 and already the darling of the USSR. This probably should have deterred Yuuri from him on principle alone, but there had just been something about the way he skated…12 year old Yuuri had sat, transfixed in front of the television, watching a grainy and beautiful Russian boy skating his heart out onto the ice. Yuuri had fallen in love – with both Viktor, and with figure skating.

“Okay,” Phichit agrees, “it is a _little_ bit tragic. But in a good way!”

“Ha ha,” Yuuri says sarcastically, and then, “I’m going to die.”

“What?”

“I can’t skate on the same ice as _Viktor_!” Yuuri wails (but quietly. They are, after all, in public). He puts his forehead down on the table and stares hard at the grain.

“Why not?” Phichit asks.

“Because he’s awesome! And I’m…not?”

“Yuuri,” Phichit sighs. Tentatively, Yuuri looks up his friend. Phichit is sitting properly now, nursing his tea and looking down at Yuuri pensively.

“What?” Yuuri asks.

“You’re just real fucking _illin’_ sometimes,” Phichit says.

“Ow. You’re wounding me.”

“Yuuri, you’re an ace figure skater, and I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe it.” Phichit finishes his cup of tea with a little grimace. Sighing, Yuuri sits up again and drains the last of his cup. Outside the rain is easing off slightly.

“Shall we go?” Yuuri asks, “we need to be up early tomorrow.”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Phichit sighs, “but know what I am _very sad_ that we did not get to see more of Tokyo.”

“Literally,” Yuuri rolls his eyes as he shoulders open the door, “in weather like this? Drinking tea is pretty much all there _is_ to do!”

They glance both ways, and then run across the road. Water splashes everywhere – Yuuri’s sneakers are soaked, and his hood blows off and his head is immediately drenched. His glasses are completely fogged as he stumbles into the foyer of the hotel. Phichit is swearing inventively, a pink blur like a giant toxic marshmallow somewhere to his left.

“I hate it when this happens,” Yuuri wheezes, and then immediately walks into something very solid.

Yuuri swears. So does the unidentified solid object.

Yuuri takes several rapid steps back and tugs his glasses off to polish them quickly on his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, squinting over at the person who he just unceremoniously walked into, “I didn’t see you. Obviously. I wouldn’t deliberately walk into – anyway.” He shoves his glasses back onto his nose.

The first thing he sees now that his vision has been miraculously restored is Phichit, standing several feet away and looking a bizarre combination of pained and excited and also like he might be crying a little bit.

The second thing he sees is a very disgruntled looking Viktor Nikiforov.

“Oh fuck,” Yuuri says, unceremoniously.

“It’s…okay?” Viktor looks as if it is not, in fact, okay. He is…tall. And beautiful. And his hair is flopping over his eye and Yuuri wants to die.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri says again.

“Yeah, alright,” Viktor says, and then he turns and walks away, over to where his coach is having some sort of argument with the concierge. Yuuri stands stock still in the middle of the foyer, dripping over the floor, and stares after him. His brain is taking an alarmingly long time to process.

“Okay!” Phichit has reappeared and, seizing Yuuri’s arm, begins to drag him in the direction of the elevators.

“I just walked into Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri informs his friend wonderingly.

“Yeah, I noticed, homeboy,” Phichit says. He is biting down on a laugh as he jabs the ‘up’ button.

“Oh God,” Yuuri moans, “I’m going to die. Phichit, I am _actually going to die_.”

As soon as the lift doors close behind them, Phichit collapses with a hoot of laughter against the mirrored wall.

“I hate you! I _hate_ you!” Yuuri exclaims, but he is laughing too. This, like everything else about the whole experience in Tokyo so far, feels just a little bit unreal. Yuuri pushes his wet hair back off his forehead and squints at his reflection in the mirror.

“I should have brought my camera,” Phichit says, “then I could have immortalised that moment forever.”

“I feel like I’m fifteen again,” Yuuri says, “getting all shaky and ugh.” He jumps and down on the balls of his feet, trying to disperse some of the strange electric energy that has been coursing through his veins since his sudden and unexpected encounter with Viktor.

“At least you didn’t knock him over, or something,” Phichit says as the doors open with an obnoxious ‘ping’, “ _that_ would have been embarrassing. And probably seen as, like, an act of war.” Phichit puts on a mock serous voice, putting on a ridiculously exaggerated accent and holding his hand underneath his chin like a microphone.

“Viktor Nikiforov is K.O’ed by American figure skater Yuuri Katsuki in a hotel in Tokyo. Tensions are escalating – it is believed that there could be a nuclear strike at any time. The Soviets have pulled their ambassadors from Washington and - ack!” Phichit’s fake news report is extinguished in a squeal as Yuuri tosses his wet jacket at his friends’ head.

“I’m gonna K.O _you_ , narbo,” he says. There is a pause as Yuuri digs into his pocket for his room key. And then:

“Do you really think it would have caused an international incident?”

“ _No_ ,” Phichit laughs. This is not comforting to Yuuri whatsoever – he’s now running over the moment in his head, imaging what would have happened if he really had knocked Viktor over. Maybe he would have been accused of trying to sabotage another skater? Maybe it _would_ have been some kind of scandal!

“Yo,” Phichit snaps his fingers in front of Yuuri’s face, “seriously, dude? Don’t worry about it. He probably won’t even remember it.”

This isn’t comforting either – even though it’s stupid and Viktor is a million miles out of his league, the idea of Viktor finding him forgettable is distinctly unpleasant. It’s also the reason why Yuuri has never approaches Viktor, even though they’ve competed in the same place before. With a sigh, Yuuri realises how pathetic it is to still be clinging to his childhood hopes like that.

“Dude, call room service or something,” Phichit shoulder Yuuri into his room. “Go to bed. You look like a sad puppy.”  
“I am a sad puppy,” Yuuri says absently, and then, “what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call Mom,” Phichit says, “see you tomorrow?”

“Oh, hmmn,” Yuuri pretends to think about it, tipping his head to the side and squinting his eyes shut, “I don’t know, I think I might just not bother showing up to the competition actually.”

“That wouldn’t be nearly so funny,” Phichit says. He points a finger at Yuuri as a final … admonition? Strange gesture of encouragement? Yuuri lets the door swing shut on his retreating back.

He fumbles around in the darkness for a moment before finding the light switch. The small hotel room is bathed in obnoxious yellowish light. It’s not the worst room Yuuri has ever stayed in, but it’s boring in its utilitarianism. Cream walls, brown carpet, a yellow and brown striped bedspread. There aren’t even of those weird cheap reproduction watercolours on the walls. Yuuri likes to make hotel rooms feel more like home by scattering his belongings over every possible surface. He clears space on his bed by unceremoniously shoving some clothes and a few books onto the floor, thinking that he’ll clear them up later.

He is suddenly exhausted. The active and ever-stressed-out part of his brain in lurking in wait, ready to hyper analyse the competition which starts tomorrow. Which moves he will be doing, whether he will succeed or fail, whether Phichit will score better than him, whether he will fall…

 

***

 

“Farg’m?” Yuuri sits bolt upright in bed with a muffled exclamation. The room is dark – where is he?

It takes a long moment for everything to come back to him – he is in Tokyo, it is the day of the World Championship Short Program, and he does not remember going to sleep. He presses a hand to cheek and glances left and right, trying to find his glasses. He is still wearing his tracksuit pants and shirt from yesterday, and the duvet is tucked in beneath him. The only light source in the room is the square alarm clock, which is flashing obnoxious red numbers at him.

Apparently, it is 8:32 am. Which is…not convenient.

With a yell, Yuuri dives out of bed. His foot gets tangled in a shirt left on the floor, and he smacks into the wall. He pauses for a moment, trying to weigh up whether he has time for a shower or not, before shedding clothes left, right and centre and diving under a stream of icy water. This is a very effective way of waking himself up.

As he awkwardly smears soap over everywhere he can reach whilst trying to expose himself to the least amount of hot water possible, he figures that he’s at least very well rested for today’s competition, if a little stiff.

Dressing quickly, he grabs his skate bag and flings open the door. Celestino is standing outside of it with is fist raised, looking a little pissed off.

“Sorry coach,” Yuuri skids to a stop, grabbing onto the door frame for support, “I slept in!”

“No shit,” Celestino raises his eyebrows. He claims that he can’t raise them individually, but Yuuri and Phichit are in agreement that his eyebrows waggle at odds with each other several times a day. They have not, however, pointed this out to their coach. Mainly because it makes them laugh.

“Move it, Katsuki,” he says, “we’re already late.”

“Where’s Phichit?” Yuuri jogs along behind Celestino. His legs are not long enough to comfortably keep pace with his coach’s rapid strides.

“I sent him ahead, since he woke up at a _usual_ hour. He said he thought you’d already be there.”

“I would,” Yuuri grimaces, “I don’t know why I slept so long, honestly. It won’t happen again.”

“You bet your ass it won’t kid.”

Yuuri feels thoroughly chastened. One advantage of sleeping in is that the hours he usually spends stressing about the competition have been rather reduced. Yuuri’s wonders if this will make him _more_ anxious, or less.

At least the weather is better today. There are fluffy white clouds scudding across the sky, and the sun is shining, albeit weakly. The air is not particularly clear – but then, air in any city rarely is.

 Celestino’s rental car is idling on the curb in the capable hands of the hotel valet. The young man gets out of the car and bows slightly to Celestino as he hands the keys over.

“In,” Celestino demands. Yuuri slides meekly into the passenger seat.

“Got everything?” Celestino checks, “because so help me God if I have to send someone to pick up anything you leave behind...”

“Have a little faith, Coach,” Yuuri pats his bag, “I’m a professional. Sort of. I have everything I need.”  
“Not _sort of_ ,” Celestino corrects sternly, “you _are_ a professional. Are you allowed to skate for the NCAA?”

“There is no NCAA figure skating competition.”

“Disregarding that. Would you be allowed to, even if there was?”

“…no.”  
“And why is that?”

“Because,” Yuuri sighs, “I’m a professional athlete with a contract.”

“Yes, you are,” Celestino takes his hand off the steering wheel to prod Yuuri in the shoulder, “and don’t you forget it!”

 

Despite the rather unusual nature of the pep talk, it achieves its intended purpose. Yuuri feels bolstered as he and Celestino walk/jog into the rink. He _is_ a professional athlete, the same as all the other skaters here. He wouldn’t have made it to the world championships if he wasn’t. Sure, he suffers from an inferiority complex a mile wide and some anxiety condition to boot, but right now, he doesn’t feel too bad.

When he looks at the ice on his way past to the warm-up rooms – expansive, freshly resurfaced and gleaming with promise – he feels immediately comfortable. The ice is a hard taskmaster, one that Yuuri has cried over and bled for. But he is here, and he cannot wait to prove that he belongs. They are met at the curtain by an official, who frowns at Celestino.

“It happens,” Celestino explains with a shrug. She checks their identifications and waves them past.

The warm up rooms are full – every skater from all five groups is warming up, doing stretches and going over choreography. Phichit is doing side lunges with dramatic flair. He beckons Yuuri over, and Celestino follows. He peppers Phichit with questions about his warm ups whilst Yuuri stretches.

It’s relaxing, warming up his body. Testing its limits, feeling all its strengths. Often one stretches to see if one can identify weaknesses, too – Yuuri sincerely hopes he doesn’t uncover of those this morning. He is in Group One for the short program skate, and he needs to be thoroughly warmed up. There is no time for distractions, like the fact that Viktor has just emerged from one of the other warm up rooms with his coach. So alright, maybe Yuuri didn’t _specifically_ need to leap up in the middle of gluteal stretch to start doing leg curls _just_ to get a better view. But it’s not like anyone notices – except Phichit, who snorts at him.

“Shut up,” Yuuri says, and then, “know that I hate you.”

“ _Sprung_ ,” Phichit reminds him, with a wink.

Whatever Viktor is doing, he is not here doing it for long – he speaks to a couple of other Soviet skaters, and then disappears again. Yuuri forces his attention inwards again – he needs to focus. Find the narrative of his routine. Feel it in his bones and in underneath his skin. He thinks of the gold – he _wants_ it, badly, but – no. There’s no point wanting that. Not when there are so many skaters better than him, when he knows the chances of himself failing are high.

Celestino knows the signs and clicks his fingers in front of Yuuri’s face.

“You look like your dog just died,” he said, “smile for twenty seconds. I’ve heard it makes you more cheerful.”

“Yep, because that’s definitely useful for, you know, staving off panic attacks,” Yuuri says – but he pastes a fake and slightly deranged grin to his face all the same.

“Now talk me through your choreography,” Celestino says. He is lounging against the wall with his arms folded, watching Yuuri with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.

“Every move, every jump. Tell me how you’re going to do it.”

So Yuuri does - twice. Celestino deems his first iteration ‘not positive enough’. He sees it in his mind as he talks. So maybe he won’t think about the gold. Maybe he’ll just think about the skate.

 

When it is time to go to the ice, Yuuri does not panic. He gets _close_ to panicking, but Phichit punches him in the shoulder, and Celestino stands in the doorway and clicks his tongue, and so Yuuri stands and follows his coach. It is always a little strange walking on skates on the ground – balancing never feels quite as natural as it should. He warms up on the ice with his group, stretches once more near the benches around the edge of the rink, and then it is time. His name is announced, Celestino takes his guards, says a muffled work of encouragement, and then Yuuri steps onto the ice.

The arena is quiet. The only sound is his own breath, whispering in his ears, and the soft shooshing of his skates on the ice. Is he shaking? He cannot see, cannot feel. The world has slowed to the space between heartbeats. It is like there is an iron band around his stomach, squeezing tighter and tighter. He takes his place in the centre of the ice – and then the music starts.

The world has narrowed to himself, and the ice, and the music.

He nails his triple axel, but double-foots the take-off on his Salchow. He tries to keep the bitter pang of panic from clawing at his throat as he moves into the combination – a double loop, a single Lutz, a triple toe loop. It’s fine, it’s fine. He can do this. He is doing this. He is _here_.

When it ends, when he comes back to himself in the centre of the ice with adrenaline shooting through his veins, he is light headed. He is aware of all the mistakes that he just made, but detached from them too – around him, people are cheering. The cameras flash. There are flowers on the ice.

Celestino pulls him off the ice and claps him on the shoulder.

“Well done,” he says gruffly, “I’m proud of you!”

“Thanks Coach,” Yuuri says. He feels a little shy now as the euphoria wears off. Celestino hands him a water bottle and a towel – technically the water is for drinking and the towel is for removing sweat, but Yuuri pours half of the bottle onto the towel and then smacks it onto his face.

He can hear a little bit of laughter in the crowd – the cameras in the arena are on him – but at this point he doesn’t care. He does care when he nearly walks knees first into the bench, and Celestino has to turn him around and shove him by the shoulders.

“Yuuri,” he says, “are you hiding in that towel?”

“Maybe?” Yuuri says. His voice is muffled.

“I don’t think the Salchow will have affected your performance too badly,” Celestino says.

“Ugh,” at last Yuuri pulls the towel off his face. Quite a lot of his makeup has come off onto it, which looks kind of gross. He wads up the towel in his hands and stares down at it almost without seeing. He keeps thinking about the Salchow, about his over-rotation on the loop, on the waver in his step sequence when he’d nearly rolled his ankle…

“Snap out of it,” Celestino commands. He sits downs next to his protégé heavily, and snatches the towel out of Yuuri’s hands.

Yuuri picks up the water bottle instead, and sips it. The water is too warm.

After a moment, Celestino stands up, and Yuuri follows him. It is time to warm down, and await the final scores.

 

*******

The Men’s singles free skate is on Thursday. Because Yuuri’s score is slightly higher than Phichit’s, the other man is skating in the first group. They warm up together in the training room without exchanging words. Phichit has his Walkman playing as he stretches. Yuuri watches his lips move along to the lyrics as he does a few side-splits. When it is time for Phichit to head to the ice, Yuuri holds his fist out. Phichit brushes his knuckles against Yuuri’s and then departs with Celestino.

Left alone, Yuuri’s anxiety kicks up a notch. His short program had been majorly flawed, and his chances of medalling are next to nil, but he can still place in the top ten if he perfectly executes his short program, which he never has before. There’s just so _much_ riding on him nailing it this time.

Slipping out of his stretch, Yuuri rests his head on his knee and tries to remember how to breathe. In, pause, out, pause. There are dust motes swirling in the light. They remind Yuuri of milk in coffee in the way that they move. Focusing on them helps Yuuri to regain his equilibrium. Phichit has left his Walkman behind – Yuuri doesn’t think there would be any objection to his borrowing it.

Phichit’s taste in music is sometimes a little strange – he’s been known to listen to anything from Arthurian love ballads to Tibetan throat singing – so it’s always a gamble listening to his mixtapes. But this time, it seems Yuuri has been listening to something a little more recent. Yuuri can’t resist a little smile as he presses play and ‘Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)’ blasts in his ears. It is the perfect song to warm up to – because, after all, both Yuuri and Phichit are living their wildest dreams here.

Yuuri doesn’t see Phichit skate, or anyone else, until Group Three are ready to take the ice. Celestino walks him to the rink for warm up, talking over what he should run through.

“The toe loop combination coming out of that step sequence,” he says, holding back the curtain so Yuuri can duck underneath it, “plus the Axel combination – but not _in_ combination.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says. He’s still got Phichit’s headphones looped around his neck. It is a lot louder out here – the crowd are talking amongst themselves, cameras are flashing, and skaters are pacing back and forth with their support crews. A Romanian skater that Yuuri recognises is doing a last-minute stretch right next to the entrance way. Over near the ice, Jean-Jacques Leroy from Canada is emphatically speaking to his parents-cum-coaches. Fingers fumbling, Yuuri unzips his jacket and hands it Celestino, then steps out of his tracksuit pants.

He hesitates before handing over the Walkman, but Celestino does his patented eyebrow raise. That alone is enough to make Yuuri feel a little bit more at ease.

“Skaters from Group Three, you may now begin your warm up,” the announcer says. Celestino folds his arms on the edge of the barrier in order to watch Yuuri.

“You’ll be fine,” Celestino says firmly, “no one knows this routine better than you. Remember that.”

 

He’s right. Although in the minutes before Yuuri steps onto the ice for his skate, he feels like the nerves are going to choke him, the moment his blades touch the ice all of his concerns melt away. He withdraws into his own head. Aware of every sinew, every beat of his heart – if he had enough focus left to concentrate, he is sure he would be able to feel the blood moving through his veins, too. But he can’t, because he is soaring.

He touches down slightly when he lands the double flip, under-rotates slightly on the tricky toe loop combination – but it’s fine. He does fine. And when it’s over, he feels that bittersweet rush that signifies a season coming to an end. The last moment in the spotlight, no matter how nerve-wracking.

Celestino claps him on the shoulder (hard enough to make Yuuri’s knees buckle and he must grab the barrier for support) before handing over his skate guards.

“You did well, Yuuri,” he says, “it was a performance to be proud of.”

When Yuuri receives a high total, even he is a little surprised. It had felt good on the ice, but…

“I didn’t realise it was that good,” he says to Celestino, who is grinning. He can’t suppress his smile – on the big screen he can see himself, looking dumbfounded, as the announcer reiterates that he is currently in first place. He will not _stay_ in first place, he knows – the rest of group three and four have yet to skate, but to know that he is in the lead over another dozen skaters is a headier feeling than anything.

Absently Yuuri presses both hands to his stomach, but this is not enough to maintain his champagne-fizz excitement. His eyes rove the crowd, searching for Phichit – there he is, sitting with some other skaters, jumping up and down and clapping his hands. Yuuri could not stop grinning if he tried.

 

As group four takes to the ice for their warm-up, Yuuri goes to sit in the stands beside Phichit. He throws himself down in the uncomfortable plastic chair that has been saved for him, and wedges his drink bottle between his knees.

“Congrats, Yuuri,” Phichit beams, “I’m so happy for you!”

“Dude, you too!” Yuuri says. They still have a lame secret handshake from their junior days which gets brought up every now again. Phichit raises his hand, palm up, and Yuuri smacks his fist into it. It’s a silly little ritual really, but here at the World Figure Skating Championships, both of them still ranking in the top ten…it belongs here, to this moment, somehow.

Yuuri’s eyes are drawn to Viktor, looping on the ice below them. The other skaters are practising their jumps, but Viktor is not. He is working on some of his choreography – his arm is extended, and for the briefest of moments it is like he is pointing at Yuuri. He _isn’t_ , obviously, but it’s nice to pretend.

“Hey,” Phichit says, “have you heard the rumour?”  
“What rumour?” Yuuri does not look over at his friend. For some reason (okay, he knows the reason) he cannot take his eyes off Viktor.

“Viktor’s going to land a triple flip.”

“What – ” This gets Yuuri’s attention, “Phichit, where do you _hear_ these things?”

“Oh, you know,” Phichit shrugs, “I have my sources!”

“Your talents are wasted on figure skating,” Yuuri tells him, “you should join the CIA.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” Phichit says sweetly. Yuuri narrows his eyes and leans away. Phichit just snorts.

“No, but seriously,” he says, “do you reckon he can do it?”

“I’ve seen him do it,” someone else says. Phichit and Yuuri both jump, and turn to look behind them. Sara Crispino, one of the women’s skaters from Italy, is sitting behind them.

“What?” she says with a shrug, when both men just gape at her, “I went to see the closed practise yesterday.”

“How did you get into that?” Phichit demands. Sara shrugs one delicate shoulder.

“I went with Mickey – you know? My brother?”

It takes a moment before Yuuri remembers – yes, Mickey Crispino. Of course. He glances between Sara and Viktor down on the ice, who executes a perfect triple Axel. Yuuri feels a little twinge at the sight. Maybe it’s jealousy. Maybe he’s a little bit turned on. With difficulty, he turns his attention back to Sara, who is telling a fascinated Phichit far, far too much information about herself and her brother.

She’s pretty – slim and dark with masses of straight black hair which frames her oval face. When she talks, she moves her hands a lot – her fingers are bony, and her nails are painted red. She’s wearing a signet ring which catches the light.

“Group Five, please vacate the ice, your warm up is over,” the announcers voice cuts through the low buzz of the crowd like a knife through warm butter. Immediately the audience snap to attention – the competition is about to begin again.

Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland skates first – his performances are always slightly alarmingly sexual, but he has a lot of skill. Then its Otabek Altin, a relative unknown from the USSR. His performance, whilst technically very good, isn’t overly remarkable.

“Now taking the ice, Viktor Nikiforov, of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics!”

The announcers voice is muffled by the escalation of cheers. Viktor skates into the centre of the ice like he is coming home – or, no. He _is_ coming home, and the audience knows it. Yuuri knows it, too. The ice belongs to Viktor Nikiforov, and it always has.

For his free skate, he is skating to an original piece – the title is in Russian, something complicated that Yuuri can’t even _begin_ to pronounce. Another of the many rumours that circulate constantly around Viktor is that the song was written for him by Andrei Makarevich, which seems a little far-fetched, but not so far out of the realm of believability, really. Viktor is, after all, the poster-boy for the USSR.

Yuuri wonders idly what he’s really like. He always seems charming and cheerful when meeting fans or press, and his perfect grasp of English helps his image immensely. He’s always smiling when he’s in public – but he hadn’t seemed overly happy the other day when Yuuri had seen him out in the rain, or even later in the lobby of the hotel…

But then all contemplations of Viktor’s character are pushed from his mind, because Viktor starts skating. He opens with a waltz jump out of a spread eagle, and from this initial step, the audience is hooked. Yuuri’s water bottle falls from between his knees, but he doesn’t notice. Viktor’s flashy purple costume catches the light as he goes into a flying sit spin, executes a triple axel, steps into an ina bauer with the most perfect form Yuuri has ever seen.

He does it when the audience and the judges least expect it, of course. Right at the end of his routine, a complicated step sequence, and then a beautiful triple flip. Yuuri watches, hands pressed to his mouth, to see – did he land on the right back outside edge – yes?

“Holy shit!” Phichit says. Yuuri is on his feet and doesn’t even realise it – but many others are on their feet too. It is the first time a triple flip has been landed in international competition. Viktor has won the gold, and he knows it. As his routine ends, he is smiling – not the brash grin of desperately sought victory, but the small, elated smile of a job well done.

 

***

 

Viktor wins gold. Theo Bruin of France wins second, and Seung-Gil Lee of Korea wins the bronze. Yuuri places 8th, and Phichit 11th.

“It’s weird that the season is over,” Yuuri shrugs his shoulders up and down as he and Phichit head to the press area for a few closing interviews with American journalists before they head back to the hotel.

“I know what you mean,” Phichit sighs, “I feel sort of empty?”

Yuuri looks around the arena one more time. It is emptying quickly – skaters are drifting around collecting belongs and talking to their teams or to their friends, audience members are filing out in streams, leaving programs and empty food containers behind on the seats. It a scene of such definitive _ending_.

In the media room, Yuuri is detained by one of the press advisors for Team USA, who asks him if he is averse to doing an interview with a Japanese broadcasting agency. Yuuri answers a few questions about skating and living in America, and about how he feels about his score.

“What did you think of the medal-winning performances?” the woman interviewing him asks.

“I thought they were great,” Yuuri says honestly, “I didn’t see Theo’s free skate so I can’t offer an opinion, but I like Seung-Gil’s technique. I hope that next season I will be able to place, too.”

“And what about Mr Nikiforov?” she presses.

“I thought his triple flip was incredible,” Yuuri says, “he’s the best in the world for a reason.”

“Do you hope to beat him one day?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Yuuri deflects. Privately, he maybe does, but he knows he never will, so there’s no point admitting it. He couldn’t never be as good as Viktor.

“I just consider it a bit of an honour to be allowed to skate on the same ice as him,” he adds, and leaves his answer at that. The American journalists from the sports networks ask him much the same questions, but some of theirs are more personal – how is college going? What are his plans for the next season?

“Juggling a season with college is hard,” Phichit says – they are doing a shared interview now – and Yuuri nods.

“We’re away a lot,” Phichit continues, “travelling, obviously – so keeping up with work is a lot! But that’s why we get five years, so,” he gives the camera thumbs up, “plenty of time!”

 

After they’ve finished with the media, they return to the hotel to get ready for the official afterparty. Every skater who competed is invited – it is considered essential in the figure skating world for skaters to socialise with each other. Yuuri, personally, isn’t a fan.

“It’s _fun_ , Yuuri,” Phichit says. They are in the lift with Celestino.

“Yeah but, talking to people?” Yuuri grimaces.

“They have alcohol,” Phichit does finger guns, “and the drinking age here isn’t 21!”

“…okay, that’s a pretty decent incentive,” Yuuri nods.

“What, Coach, you have no comment to make on that?” Phichit elbows Celestino in the side. Their coach just sighs.

“You’re both adults,” he says, “and I’m not your parent. There’s nothing I could do to stop you, even if I wanted to.”

“Any sage words of wisdom before we get hammered then?”

“Pfft. Drink responsibly, kids,” Celestino rolls his eyes.

“Let’s _not_ get hammered, Phichit,” Yuuri says, “moderately drunk, yes. Hammered, no. We’re in public, remember.”

“You say that now,” Phichit says.

 

Casual words that proved prophetic.

 

***

“I’ve changed my mind!” Yuuri yells to Phichit across the music, “let’s get fucking hammered!”

He has had …12 glasses of champagne? 15? He can’t be sure, because he lost the ability to count over an hour ago.

“Fuck, Yuuri,” Phichit yells back, “are you drunk?”  
“Nah,” Yuuri shakes his head, and his hand, and splashes alcohol onto his tie.

“Motherfucker,” he says, and hands his glass to Phichit in order to hold the tie up to the light.

It isn’t _really_ all that wet. Just a very large splotch of alcohol, right in the middle. Obviously, it _has_ to come off. Yuuri unknots it with shaking hands, then drops it on the floor.

“Oops!” he says, bending down and then standing up far too quickly. The rush of blood to his head makes him dizzy. Phichit just laughs at him.

“You should tie it around your head,” he says. This is a brilliant idea.

“You do it,” Yuuri says, and drops it over Phichit’s head. Phichit shoves the two glasses of champagne into Yuuri’s hands so that he can adorn Yuuri with his own necktie. One of them is nearly full, and the other nearly empty. Yuuri can’t remember which is his, but he decides to drink the fuller one. Just because.

“Hey,” Phichit says, “is that mine?”

“Not anymore!” Yuuri says – but not until he drains the glass.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Phichit says, “okay, stay there. I’m going to get up more drinks. And _behave_!” he warns, waggling an admonitory finger as he takes both glasses.

“I _always_ behave,” says Yuuri, blatantly lying through his teeth.

“Sure you do,” Phichit nods. There is a little gleam in his eyes that turns up every time he knows Yuuri is drunk or otherwise inebriated. Phichit gets a good laugh out of Yuuri’s exploits, like any true friend.

“Bye!” Yuuri waves after him, and then pauses. He is alone now, which is sad. He glances around – no, he doesn’t know those people there, or _those_ people over there. There’s Celestino, but Yuuri doesn’t want to talk to him…Ooh, and there’s Viktor! He’s standing next to a pillar with his arms folded, watching the party. He looks…bored? Pissed off? _Tired_ , maybe? Yuuri thinks he should go and apologise for the whole ‘nearly knocking him over in the lobby’ thing that happened the other day. That would be an _excellent_ idea.

And if Yuuri nearly trips over his own feet approaching the Soviet skater, well, no one notices, so everything is fine.

“Viktor!” he says, once he gets close enough to be within earshot. Viktor turns his head, and then does a double take.

“Huh?” he says – or maybe says. Yuuri is actually still far away to hear properly. He maybe have yelled a little. But he can’t really tell, having left all volume control behind with his sobriety. 

“Hi!” Yuuri says when he gets close enough. Viktor is a little taller than he is – he looks down at Yuuri with a slight frown.

“…hello,” he says slowly, “do I know you?”  
“No,” Yuuri says happily, “but I just wanted to apologise!”

“Ah,” the corner of Viktor’s mouth curls up slightly as he huffs in surprise, “I don’t know you but you want to say sorry to me?”

“Well you don’t _know_ me,” Yuuri amends, then waves a hand as if brushing off a fly, “but I ran into you the other day in the lobby – like literally ran into you – and I apologised _then_ , but I wanted to apologise again! I’m drunk,” he adds, unnecessarily.

This time, Viktor laughs properly. He has a nice laugh. Yuuri likes it.

“I can tell,” Viktor says, “although I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”  
“Oh,” Yuuri says, and frowns. He tries to remember some more details. “Uh…it was raining?”

“Huh…oh!” Viktor’s face lights up in recognition, and he turns his body a little towards Yuuri, keeping his shoulder propped up against the pillar, “I remember! What are you doing here, though?”

“Talking to you?” Yuuri blinks confusedly. Viktor shakes his head.

“Ah, sorry, I just meant – you are a skater too?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says – he tries for proud, and fails somewhat. He feels a little deflated – what’s the point of skating on the same ice as Viktor Nikiforov if he doesn’t even notice you?

“I didn’t know there were any skaters from Japan competing,” Viktor says with a little frown, “sorry – I’m terrible at remembering details like this.” He shrugs one shoulder, and then he smiles. His eyes curve into little crescent moons. Yuuri is transfixed.

“Do that again,” he orders.

“What?” Viktor blinks, startled. “Do what?”  
“Smile!” Yuuri says.

“Wha –”

“You look beautiful when you smile,” Yuuri says, “it makes your eyes look cute!”

“Oh boje, Viktor says, which makes zero sense. He rears back slightly, but even through his champagne goggles Yuuri can tell that he’s blushing. Viktor presses one hand absently to his own cheek, and then drops it down again, “what – who _are_ you?”

“Oh, I’m Yuuri,” Yuuri says. He holds his hand out, and Viktor examines it for a second as if he thinks Yuuri’s hiding something up his (rolled to the elbow) sleeve, but then with a little laugh he takes Yuuri’s hand and shakes it gently.

“Nice to meet you, Yuuri,” Viktor says, and he’s shaking his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. The song playing over the loudspeaker transitions into a familiar tune, and Yuuri turns his head to look across at the dance floor (he conveniently forgets to let go of Viktor’s hand).

“Come and dance with me!” he says, turning back to Viktor.

“I – wha – now?”

“Yes! You looked so _bored_ before,” Yuuri says pleadingly. He’s probably laying it on a little thick, but that last glass of champagne has really hit him now. Everything is soft and fuzzy around the edges and he feels _good_.

“So come and dance! It’ll be fun!” Yuuri tugs on Viktor’s hand, turning himself around so he is walking backwards. Viktor hesitates for a second.

“Why do you want to dance with _me_?” he asks. He has to shout a little to be heard.

“Because I want you to have _fun_ ,” Yuuri says. He holds his left arm out and flaps his hand about until Viktor, realising what he wants, tentatively raises his other hand, and lets Yuuri tug him onto the dancefloor. He trips a little over the little step down, falls closer to Yuuri. Yuuri holds their hands up and waves them. It’s silly and it’s fun and there are people staring but he doesn’t _care_. Viktor grimaces a little as he glances to his left. Yuuri releases one of his hands and turns Viktor’s face back towards him.

“You should smile, ok?” he says again.

 

Professional figure skaters must work quite hard to be able to dance badly. Yuuri and Viktor fall into their natural rhythms almost immediately – it is far easier to let the music and the mood dictate their actions than it is to resist the pull. Yuuri knows – somewhere in the archives of his brain – that Viktor used to dance for the Kirov in Leningrad. He himself has danced for years... So ‘Hold the Line’ by Toto isn’t _quite_ conducive to elegant and graceful dancing, but it doesn’t really matter.

At some point Yuuri’s tie slips off of his head, and Viktor stoops to pick it up. He pauses with the loop of silk held between his hands, like he doesn’t know where to put it. Yuuri inclines his head, and Viktor carefully settles it like a crown. His fingers brush through Yuuri’s hair as he knots the tie a little tighter, then pushes back to peer at Yuuri with a critical eye.

“You look ridiculous,” he says, but he’s smiling the crinkle-eye smile again.

“Thanks,” Yuuri says. He presses the knot of the tie against his temple and smiles up at Viktor. The world is spinning quite alarmingly all of a sudden, and time moves in dollops, and suddenly he’s falling and Viktor’s face is above him.

“Hello,” Yuuri says, and laughs.

“You are very drunk,” Viktor says. He looks like he too is trying not to laugh. The corners of his mouth are twitching. He has a nice mouth, Yuuri muses. Very…kissable.

“I know,” Yuuri agrees, and then, “I can’t stand up.”

Viktor sighs, and slides his arms underneath Yuuri’s armpits so he can tug him to his feet. Yuuri is totally off-kilter, and stumbles against Viktor’s side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Oh boje,” Viktor says again. Yuuri realises – somewhat belatedly – that this phrase must be in Russian. He is on the verge of asking Viktor what it means when Phichit suddenly appears out of the aether.

“Sorry,” he apologises to Viktor – for reasons unclear to Yuuri – and holds his arm out...

“Phichit!” Yuuri exclaims, and flings himself at his friend. Phichit’s knees buckle a little under the impact, but he pulls Yuuri upright and shakes his head.

“Homeboy, you are a _tragedy_ ,” he tells Yuuri. The scolding is ruined rather by the fact that Phichit is slurring badly.

“I know,” Yuuri agrees cheerfully.

“Sorry again,” Yuuri says to Viktor, who is standing with his arms hanging limply at his sides. His tie is loose, and the top button of his pink shirt is undone. He looks a little lost.

“It’s okay,” Viktor says, “are you – do you need help?”

“Nah,” Phichit says, “I’ve got him.”

“I’ve got _myself_ ,” Yuuri grumbles, and shimmies out of Phichit’s grasp. He really needs to pee.

“I’ll be back!” he promises both Phichit and Viktor, and disappears into the crush of dancers. Finding the bathroom proves to be a challenge when he’s not sure which way is up, but a very nice Chinese skater points him in the right direction and Yuuri stumbles off. Something seems a little off to him, but he can’t quite work out what it is. Maybe he should have a glass of water, or two, or five?

But then he arrives in the bathroom – it is tiled in orange and turquoise and it hurts his eyes, but the sinks have very large taps, and nothing seems like a better idea than sticking his entire head into the sink.

The water misses his mouth at first and splashes all over his glasses, but it is cold and a little bit sobering. Only a _little_ bit sobering, though – Yuuri probably still couldn’t spell his surname if he was asked – but he feels a little bit better. Slightly more grounded. Less like his entire body is in the clouds as well as his head.

When he’s finished drinking, he stares at his face in the mirror. He doesn’t see himself. Instead, he’s running over the moments that he has just lived. He is grinning and completely unable to stop, because he went and _spoke_ to Viktor! He _danced_ with Viktor! And Viktor was confused but he _smiled_ , and Yuuri feels weird, but when he thinks about it he realises that it is happiness.

When he exits the bathroom, Phichit is nowhere in sight. Two Soviet skaters that he vaguely recognises are talking to each other in a corner, and they glance at him as he passes. Yuuri barely notices them. He has removed the tie from his head and stuffed it into the pocket of his tux – a much more logical place for it, really. He needs some food – maybe there is still pizza left.

As he heads towards the buffet, he sees Viktor having a conversation with his coach next to the drinks. Viktor is significantly taller than the older man who coaches him. His arms are crossed, and he’s frowning. As Yuuri passes, he looks up. Yuuri waves, and to his surprise Viktor knocks his coach against the shoulder with the back of his hand, and then approaches him.

“Hi,” Viktor says, “are you ok?”

“Oh…yeah,” Yuuri grins, a little shyly, “I’m great!”

“I’m glad,” Viktor says. He tosses his hair out of his eye – a move that Yuuri has seen him do so many times before on television and on the podium. It is so quintessentially Viktor and _God_ Yuuri has such a big crush on him. Suddenly it dawns on Yuuri – through the drunk haze that still lingers – that he has been quite blatantly flirting with Viktor. In public.

“Oh,” he says, and Viktor must see his face drop, because he frowns.

“What?”  
“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, and presses both hands to his mouth.

“Tcha,” Viktor says, “what have you done now?”

It takes a second for Yuuri to realise that Viktor is joking, and he lowers his hands a little.

“I…probably shouldn’t have dragged you into the dance floor, just, you know, because it’s a bit…and people sometimes get…weird…about it…” he doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know how to apologise for…flirting? Because _was_ his flirting that obvious to anyone else? Was his flirting even obvious to Viktor.

“Oh, I don’t care,” Viktor shrugs, “it would have surprised everyone!”

“So you…you don’t…mind…?”

“No,” Viktor says, and Yuuri wonders if he imagines Viktor’s gaze flicking down ever-so-briefly, “I do not.”

“O-okay,” Yuuri says, and finally moves his hands away from his face. Maybe now would be a good time for more alcohol. He suggests this to Viktor, who smirks, but disappears to go and get them both glasses of champagne. He hands one to Yuuri, and then lifts the other one slightly in inclination.

“Za tebya,” he says.

“What does that mean?” Yuuri asks.

“It means ‘to you’,” Viktor says. He is smiling over the rim of his glass at Yuuri with dark eyes. Yuuri suddenly notices, quite inexplicably, how beautiful Viktor’s hands are. He holds the bowl of his glass between middle and ring finger, and it _shouldn’t_ be obscene, but it _is_.

Yuuri chugs several mouthfuls of champagne and hopes it will keep the blush in his cheeks down. From the widening smirk on Viktor’s face, he knows he is not successful.

To their left, a kerfuffle has broken out on the dance floor. Mickey Crispino is yelling at a skater that Yuuri doesn’t know. His sister Sara is pulling on his arm, saying something urgently. Phichit is standing nearby with his arms folded and is hair a fluffed p mess, exchanging terse words with Seung-Gil Lee. As they watch, Sara turns around and throws her hands up in frustration. She sees Yuuri, and elbows her brother, saying something to him.

“Jesus,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t think he wants to be involved in whatever is going on and wonders if he can just slip away…but then Phichit sees him and beckons him over.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says to Viktor, “looks like I’m involved. For some God unknown reason.”

“Okay,” Viktor inclines his head, “go and broker the peace.”  
“Ha,” Yuuri says weakly, and then he approaches the group. Really, he’s still far too drunk for this.

“What’s going on?” he asks Phichit, who rolls his eyes and opens his mouth. Before he can speak however, Mickey is suddenly in his face.

“What have you said to my sister?” he demands. Yuuri has literally never spoken to Mickey in his life – he is quite a dark man, with broad shoulders and sandy hair and a thick Italian accent.

“Nothing?” Yuuri leans back to get out of range of the little globules of spit that are flying.

“Mickey,” Sara tugs on her brothers arm again, “why are you doing this?” She then bursts into a stream of rapid Italian. Mickey listens to her, and frowns.

“Apparently,” Phichit says in an undertone to Yuuri now that Mickey is distracted, “Mickey objected to Sara flirting with Emil.”

“Okay…”

“So Sara said to him that it wasn’t Emil she wanted to sleep with, it was you.”  
“Wha –” Yuuri turns around and stares, “you _can’t_ be serious!”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Phichit shrugs. Sara has at last succeeded in placating her brother, and she drags him away. As she goes she shoots a little apologetic glance over her shoulder at Yuuri.

“Whatever,” Seung-Gil says, “are we going to dance, or what?”

“Yes, we are,” Phichit grabs Yuuri by the arm, and tugs him back onto the dance floor. They end up congregating next to a cluster of Australian ice dancers. Phichit flirts incessantly with all of them. The alcohol is kicking back in, and Yuuri dances and drinks from a glass that is handed to him by _someone_ , and manages successfully to avoid the flirtatious clutches of a blonde girl from Tasmania by escaping to the drinks table. There, he seizes a bottle of champagne. And then ‘Like a Virgin’ by Madonna comes on, and Yuuri can hear Phichit’s wails of joy from all the way across the room. He shoulders his way back through the crowds of skaters and is seized unceremoniously by his very intoxicated friend.

“Hey, Yuuri,” he hiccups, and then seizes the bottle and drinks for a solid ten seconds, “this song is about you!”

“Hey, I hate you?” Yuuri slurs, as he wrestles the bottle back. Phichit throws an arm around his neck and they dance together, the way they do at practise sometimes, or in their dorm room when they are drunk. Close together, moving in tandem. Yuuri has completely lost all grasp of which way is up. He just really likes Madonna.

And then as he is spinning and spinning and hoping to high hell that he doesn’t throw up, he sees a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye. Viktor is dancing with the same skater who had given Yuuri the side eye when he had left the bathroom some hours ago. She is pretty, petite and red haired. Her hair clashes horribly with Viktor’s shirt. Said shirt is most of the way unbuttoned now, and Viktor’s face is flushed from either exertion or alcohol. Either way, he is gorgeous.

“I’ll be back,” Yuuri says, or maybe says.

Viktor sees him coming. He stops spinning the girl and glances between the two, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. He holds a hand out towards Yuuri, which is all the invitation needed.

One thing that Yuuri does not factor into the equation, however, is the champagne bottle. As Yuuri throws his arms around Viktor’s waist, he drops the bottle. Obviously the bottle is of good quality because it doesn’t smash, but the champagne remaining in it splashes everywhere. The red-haired skater yelps and leaps backwards. Yuuri leaps backwards, too. Viktor’s arms are around his waist holding him up, and the both stare down at the pool of champagne spreading across the parquet.

“O-ops,” Yuuri says. He and Viktor exchange little sideways glances, and Viktor bites his lip hard. Yuuri cannot quite suppress a giggle. The other skater – what _is_ her name? – tugs on Viktor’s sleeve and says something in Russian. Viktor says in reply and laughs, and the girl rolls her eyes – but she is smiling. She looks sideways at Yuuri again, and although Yuuri doesn’t think she is exactly _hostile_ towards him, he feels a little like an ant under a magnifying glass. Likely to get burned.

“We should get away from the scene of the crime,” Viktor says. Yuuri snorts.

“Yes,” he agrees, and the both turn and book from the dance floor. Most people didn’t notice anything happen, but they go fast anyway, and then they are running, and skidding together as they hit the far wall next to the door to the cloakroom.

“Fuck,” Yuuri gasps through his laughter, trying and failing to catch his breath.

“I know,” Viktor says, and then adds something in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t catch. They are both leaning up against the wall. When Yuuri glances under his eyelashes at Viktor, he sees that Viktor is already looking at him.

“Do you…” Viktor begins hesitantly, “want…to go?”

It takes Yuuri a moment. The first half of the moment is working out what Viktor said, because the room is loud and Viktor has spoken quietly. The second half of the moment is just internal excited screaming.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I really do.”

 

***

 

Viktor goes to get his jacket, so Yuuri leaves ahead of him and waits by the elevators. The lobby is lonely. Yuuri waits alone in front of the elevators. He listens to the sound of the party still going on the conference rooms whilst he fingers the tie in his pocket. He has not felt like a child for many years now; the world of professional sports strips away any childlike mentality that threatens to linger. He has no nostalgia for childhood, because he gets to live moments like this.

He is experience a perfectly ordinary moment, and yet it is novel. Or perhaps it is not so ordinary. He occupies the world of professional athleticism, works all day every day to express his art on the ice. But he has had to make sacrifices for this. He never had time for relationships in high school, in college even less. He has liked both men and women in the past, but his experience has been limited by the simple fact that he is too _busy_.

But now he is not. Now he is standing under fluorescent in front of a bank of elevators in Tokyo at midnight, wearing a suit worth more money than he can afford, waiting for a beautiful man to come and take him to bed. The elevator door opens and Viktor still has not re-emerged. Yuuri steps half in and half out of the elevator so the doors do not close. He waits.

 

When Viktor appears at last he is shrugging his coat back on. He looks up halfway across the expansive floor, and smiles. It is that heart-shaped smile, the one that narrows his eyes, the one that makes Yuuri’s heart stop. He cannot believe that this is his real life.

Yuuri moves to the back of the space to make room for Viktor.

“What floor?”

“Seven,” Yuuri says. His voice suddenly seems too loud in the small place. Viktor nods, scans the numbers, presses the button. It doesn’t light up immediately so he pushes it again. Suddenly the elevator jerks upwards and he stumbles. Yuuri reaches out a hand to steady him, and that is all it takes.

Viktor moves fast, crowding him into the corner to his back is against the bar. There is a moment when their noses bump as they find their balance. Then Viktor’s hands are on Yuuri’s hips as he captures Yuuri’s mouth in a kiss.

He kisses like he skates – perfectly, and like he has everything to lose. Yuuri has never been kissed like this before. He holds Viktor close, fingers getting caught in the belt loops of Viktor’s pants as he tries to pull him closer. Viktor wobbles – he, too, is a little bit drunk – and shoots out a hand to brace it against the mirror by Yuuri’s head. He does not break the kiss even as he does this. Yuuri’s head is spinning.

The elevator door pings and they leap apart. Yuuri’s heart is racing. He feels like he is falling.

He looks across at Viktor: hair mussed, shirt partially untucked, standing close and warm.

“After you,” he says breathlessly, and follows Viktor out of the elevator.

Of course, he forgets which pocket he has put his key in. Viktor stands directly behind his back as he digs around. He is so warm and solid, and his breath on the back of Yuuri’s neck makes the hairs on his arms stand up – in the best way.

When Yuuri finally manages to get the door open, he very nearly falls into to the hotel room because Viktor moves so fast. His hands are on Yuuri’s waist and chest and ass. They pause only long enough for Yuuri to flick on one of the lights, and for Viktor to kick shut the door. They trip over Yuuri’s crap, still scattered across the floor in their mutual desperation to be in the other’s immediate proximity, now now _now_.

Somehow, they make it to the bed, all knees and elbows and tangles of limb. Yuuri finds himself on top of Viktor. For a moment, he pauses.

Beneath him, Viktor is half sitting, half lying. He is propped up on his elbows. His shirt is completely undone now, rumpled and open over defined muscles and alabaster skin. Yuuri is sitting across his hips, and the friction of that point of contact is certainly a pressing distraction. But just for a moment, Yuuri wants to look.

“What?” Viktor asks, as Yuuri makes no move to do anything other than sit there and stare at him. He looks down towards his groin then up again, nonplussed.

Yuuri touches his fingers to Viktor’s chest, and leans forward. He kisses Viktor with a sweetness that cute through the heat. It takes Viktor by surprise, Yuuri thinks – at any rate, he flops backwards so that he is lying flat, and slides his hands underneath Yuuri’s shirt to brush against his stomach.

Phichit had not been entirely correct, when he had joked that Yuuri was a virgin. Yuuri has some idea of what he is doing, but…this is _Viktor Nikiforov_. Nothing about this feels real – it is as if everything is new. He _feels_ new – every part of his body is on fire.

When Yuuri kisses Viktor’s neck, he can feel Viktor swallow. When he sucks hard and nips with his teeth, leaving a trail of marks from Viktor’s ear to his shoulder, he can hear Viktor swearing under his breath.

“I like it when you do that,” he says. His Russian accent gets stronger the thicker his voice becomes.

“I know,” Yuuri mumbles into his skin, “I can tell.”

Viktor pushes on Yuuri’s shoulders then, rolling them so that Yuuri is pinned beneath his weight. He sits back and starts to undo Yuuri’s belt. For a moment, he concentrates on what he is doing, but then his gaze flicks up to meet Yuuri’s eyes seductively. For a second his gaze wanders to the side – and then he frowns.

“What?” it is Yuuri’s turn to ask. Viktor blinks, and then reaches forward to pull something out from underneath Yuuri’s shoulder. It is Yuuri’s tracksuit jacket, discarded haplessly on the bed when he had changed earlier for the banquet. Viktor weighs it in his hands, and then looks slowly up.

“What is this?” he asks.

“My team jacket?” Yuuri is confused, “you know, my tracksuit? I didn’t realise it was on the bed, sorry.” He reaches up to tug it from Viktor’s hands, and balls it up to throw across the room, before craning his neck up to nuzzle into Viktor’s cheek.

“You’re _American_?” the velvet is gone from Viktor’s voice. It is a sharp contrast. Yuuri’s stomach twists uneasily.

“Yes,” he says – or whispers, rather. He doesn’t want to shift back, doesn’t want to be able to see Viktor’s expression.

 “You’re – you’re an American citizen? You skate for the USA?” Viktor asks. He is totally still – still astride Yuuri, still cheek to cheek.

“…yes?” Finally, Yuuri pulls back – just enough to be able to see him. Beautiful, beautiful Viktor. His lips are swollen ( _I did that,_ Yuuri thinks), there are bruises blooming on his neck ( _I did_ that _, too!_ ). He is out of breath, shirt undone, cheeks and chest flushed. But he’s biting his lip, closing his eyes briefly. He says something under his breath, something in Russian.

“Didn’t you see me skate?” Yuuri continues softly.

“I…no,” Viktor’s eyes are still closed. He swallows.

The stillness is bad for Yuuri. It makes him all too aware of the heat between them – having Viktor so close, and yet so far away because he is so _still_.

“Please open your eyes,” Yuuri says, before his brain can catch up with him, “your eyes are so beautiful.”

Viktor’s brow furrows, and he exhales – but he does open his eyes, and look down at Yuuri. His lashes sweep across his cheek as his eyes rove across Yuuri’s face, and he looks –

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks.

“You’re not from Japan?” Viktor asks quietly.

“No,” Yuuri says, and then shrugs slightly, “That’s not entirely true – I _am_ from Japan, but I don’t live here. I live in Chicago – does it matter?”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor says. Yuuri knows that it does, and he feels sick. Viktor swallows again, and again. The hand that rests on Yuuri’s chest clenches into a fist, and then Viktor moves back.

No, Yuuri thinks – or maybe he says it, because Viktor glances back at him. Already his fingers – are they shaking, or is it just Yuuri’s eyes filling with tears – are moving to do up his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says. He reaches out a hand tentatively, and brushes the pad of his index finger across Yuuri’s lower lip, “but I can’t – I can’t. You would have been so lovely,” he says regretfully.

“I don’t understand,” Yuuri says. A rug has been pulled out from under his feet, and he is shaking, “I thought…”

He sits up slowly and watches as Viktor rolls off the bed, flings his jacket back across his shoulders, steps into his shoes. What has happened? Just a minute ago they were kissing, and now Viktor is leaving? It feels like he has been wrenched from a dream – or maybe from real life into a nightmare.

“I _can’t_ ,” Viktor reiterates desperately. He pushes a hand through his platinum hair, already mussed from Yuuri’s hands. He looks from Yuuri’s face, all the way down his body, and then closes his eyes and swallows. Yuuri watches his Adams apple move.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispers for the last time, and steps over Yuuri’s open suitcase.

He pauses at the door with one hand on the knob to look back. His expression is not easy to read, but even from this distance Yuuri can still see that there is colour on his cheeks. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth – come back, Yuuri wants to beg him, please, please come back to me – but then he opens the door, and Yuuri is alone.


	3. two - leningrad

March 10th 1985 - LENINGRAD, USSR  


 

Returning to Leningrad feels like stepping out of the sunlight and into a dark room. It always takes his eyes a long time to adjust. Now that the season is over, it is even more difficult. Viktor has nothing to look forward to now but devoting himself to devising new programmes for the next season. The cycles of his life are so _repetitive_.

It is a grey evening, and his feet itch.

Viktor heaves himself off of his bed with a sudden motion. Makkachin has been nosing around his suitcase and looks up with a happy bark.

“Yes, Makka,” Viktor pats his thighs and his dog comes bounding over, “walk? Walk?!”

Makkachin dances around his legs and gets in the way as Viktor goes to find the leash. He forgets where he last left it – it has been so long since he has been home. Eventually he finds it underneath his stack of discarded newspapers.

It is a long walk to the rink – he still lives in the Admiraltelsky district due to its proximity to the Kirov, in an apartment overlooking the Fontanka. It would have been more practical to move closer to the rink when he stopped training with the theatre, but his mother hadn’t wanted to move. Even though she left years ago, he is now prevented from moving himself by the lack of alternative accommodation to be found anywhere in the city.

But it will be good to spend an hour with Makkachin, even if it is raining. He doesn’t have any idea about what he wants to skate – he has been remarkably out of ideas lately – but it will be nice to be on the ice. He will be able to forget himself, for a time. Or, no – it is not himself that he wants to forget.

Out on the embankment, cars are zipping by. A few evening pedestrians are promenading, some with dogs. Makkachin wants to greet every one, and Viktor swaps small talk with a few owners. No one recognises him today, which is nice. He does not feel like pasting on a fake smile. Light are starting to come on in apartments all around as Viktor turns onto Nevsky, and by the time he finally gets to the rink it is fully night.

To his surprise, there are a handful of lights on inside the complex. Someone else must be feeling restless – although when Viktor tries the door, it is locked.

Makka noses around as Viktor digs through first his pockets and then his bag before finally finding his key and letting them in to the building, then bounds ahead, eager to explore every nook and cranny. Viktor follows more sedately. He does not feel like sharing the ice tonight.

When he steps into the main skating area, however, he sees that it is only Klaudia Kozłowska. It seems that they are in synch, as usual. She has a Walkman taped to her arm with gaffer tape, and is turning circles with a look of fierce determination. Barely five foot, she is all hard muscle, with short legs disproportionate to her long torso. Her long brown hair is tied in a messy bun, but strands are falling down around her face and sticking to her sweaty cheeks. She seems small out there, all on her own. Viktor folds his arms on the barrier and watches her for a while.

They have been friends for many years – since she first arrived in Leningrad, in fact. They had been less lonely, then, the both of them. Finally, she notices that he is watching and skids to stop, yanking her headphones off.

“Asshole!” she yelps, “how long have you been watching me?”  
“There’s a welcome,” Viktor pushes back from the barrier to go get his skate bag.

“What did you expect? Creep.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Viktor calls over his shoulder, “maybe ‘oh Vitya, I’ve missed you so much, congratulations on your six new gold medals!’”

“Fuck off,” Klaudia skates to the gate and slaps both skate guards on, “you don’t need me to swell your head any more than it already is.”

“I’ve missed your constant insults,” Viktor says, perfectly honestly. He puts a bone down near his feet for Makkachin so that his dog will be occupied, and starts lacing his skates. Klaudia clomps over to him and stands with her arms folded, waiting.

“Don’t look over me like that,” Viktor jokes, and she pokes him hard in the shoulder. As soon as he stands up, she wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes. He hugs her back, and does not want to admit to himself how grateful he is to have physical contact.

“What brings you to the rink tonight, comrade?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s 8pm.”

“I’m jetlagged?”

“Shut up,” Klaudia holds open the gate for him, “and also, don’t lie to me. I know when you’re talking shit.”

“I know you do,” Viktor says, “I just don’t want to talk about it yet.”

Klaudia hums thoughtfully, and peers at him across the barrier. Evidently she doesn’t like what she sees, because she sighs – but she stops asking questions. Instead she just steps onto the ice after him, and puts her headphones back on. Viktor skates laps, and watches her, and thinks.

Viktor still remembers when he first met Klaudia. It had been late May, midnight at the rink – not, altogether, a night unlike tonight. It was a white night, and Viktor was tired. He had been skating, working on his Axel. He couldn’t get it _right_ , and he was _frustrated_ , so he was going and going, ignoring the pull in his muscles and the fog in his head. It was 1979. He was eighteen.

He doesn’t remember now what song was playing, but he remembers the way Klaudia had emerged from nowhere, seizing the old boom box and tossing it onto the ice.

“Idiot!” she had screamed.

She was young, and small, but with her steel eyes and her austere bun, she had commanded respect due to the volume of her presence alone. Viktor had stopped himself mid-run up by colliding with the wall, and had fixed her with his most venomous glare.

“Do you _mind_?” he snapped, “you just destroyed that!”

“And if I hadn’t, you would have destroyed yourself, you stupid fuckhead!” she had yelled. “Don’t make me come out there and drag you off the ice with my bare hands!”

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” Viktor has asked, dumbfounded.

That moment was the start of a long friendship. Klaudia takes no shit from him, and has always been the honest voice in his ear when he needs it. Her door is always open to him, even if such an open invitation is occasionally accompanied with excessive swearing.

Klaudia swings up into the air, executing a perfect double Axel. As she lands, Viktor sees her mouth pull down, something sad in her eyes. He wonders if this is the expression mirrored on his own face.

The truth of it is, he cannot stop thinking about Tokyo. About the banquet. About…everything. Or, no – not _everything_. One thing in particular. One moment, one man, one mistake that will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, for one reason or another.

“Hey,” he says, and then yells it, because Klaudia’s music is loud and she cannot hear him. “Do you want to go home?”  
“I always want to go home, you fuckass,” she replies.

“ _You’re_ not fucking my ass,”  
“Oh _God_ ,” Klaudia rolls her eyes, “ _spare_ me your weird shit. You know what I _meant_.”

“And _I_ meant do you want to go home as in, to the place where either of us live?”

“Yours,” she says instantly, “there’s more space.”

Even though he has only been here for half an hour, Viktor finds he’s happy to get off the ice now he has her company. He wakes Makka, and they get into Klaudia’s clapped-out old car. The back window is cracked.

“What happened?” Viktor asks, and nods at the broken glass. Klaudia sighs.

“What always happens,” she says darkly. Viktor nods.

It is a quick drive through the empty night-time streets of the city back to Viktor’s apartment. When they return, Viktor makes tea and hands one to his friend. She is folded up on his hard old coach with her knees under her chin, examining her jagged toenails critically.

“Thanks,” she says automatically. Viktor opts to sit on the floor instead. Makkachin pads over and lays his head in Viktor’s lap. There is a long silence. Viktor catches Klaudia glancing at him occasionally, but for once in his life he doesn’t know what to tell her. His grandfather’s old samovar sits between them, pumping out heat. Viktor’s legs are cramping, but he won’t move them. He doesn’t want to disturb his dog.

Instead he retreats into his head, visualising some potential choreography, and trying very hard not to imagine anything _else_. Being on the ice has removed a little bit of the block on his brain, and although he has no concrete ideas, he can at least think of a few things that he may like to try.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Klaudia asks eventually.

“Nothing happened,” Viktor says automatically.

“Your gold medal is nothing?” Klaudia snorts

Viktor raises a shoulder idly, not really caring.

“It’s just another gold medal, you know?”

“Just another? Tcha! And earlier you were asking why I wasn’t congratulating you!”

 He does not look at her, but he _knows_ Klaudia is rolling her eyes.

 “You are becoming arrogant, Viktor. I would have sold my soul to have the life and the victories that you have had.”

“Arguably I’ve always been arrogant,” Viktor says, “according to Yakov. And you could have had as many victories.”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” Klaudia snorts. “and don’t change the subject. Yakov says a lot of things, which I do not care about right now. You’re not usually so taciturn when the seasons end.”

Viktor knows there is no point in pointing out that technically, _she_ was the one who had changed the subject. Viktor rolls his neck sideways to peer at his friend. She is gazing at him with narrowed eyes, thoughtful and prickly – as she always is.

“I don’t know,” Viktor looks away again, tips his head back until it hits the wall. He stares at the ceiling, with its fly spots and dust. He’s just so _tired_. Without thinking about it, he raises a hand and prods one of the bruises on his neck. He wants to feel the pain, because the pain keeps the memory alive. Of course, he has forgotten about how _observant_ Klaudia can be.

She is off the sofa in an instant, slithering onto the floor and pouncing on him. Makkachin yelps and gets up in a hurry. Klaudia digs her finger underneath the collar of Viktor’s turtleneck and yanks it down, exposing the row of hickeys.

“A- _ha_!” she says, triumphantly, “who is he?”

“No-one,” Viktor shoves her away, “leave me alone!”

“ _Who_ , Viktor? You _like_ him!”

Viktor knows that Klaudia will keep bothering him until he tells her. She knows all the ways of getting under his skin.

“Just a Japanese skater,” Viktor gives in with a sigh. He offers her only a half-truth – the walls have ears, after all.

“Ooh,” Klaudia sighs. She prods at his bruises again and he falls sideways, trying to kick her away.

“You really like him?”

“No,” Viktor lies.

“Don’t lie to me, Vitya!”

Viktor doesn’t respond, he just _looks_ at her. She’s half on top of him, sprawled over his hip for better access to aggravating his hickies. She sighs sadly when she sees his expression.

“Life is hard sometimes, my baby,” she says. She puts a hand on his cheek, and relaxes so that she is lying fully on top of him. Viktor sprawls beneath her, and at last gives in to the thoughts that he has been repressing for days.

He thinks of Yuuri’s lazy drunk smile, the smell of his hair, the feel of his skin under Viktor’s palms, warm and sticky with spilled champagne and other, more illicit things.

“It would never have worked, anyway,” he mumbles into the floor.

“Why not?”

“Because I am here,” Viktor says simply. Klaudia hums thoughtfully, and Viktor feels the vibration through his body.

“I thought that love would not have worked for me either,” she says, “but now _I_ am _here_ , so clearly I was wrong.”

“I’m not in _love_ with him,” Viktor says quickly.

Makkachin is over his being startled and comes nosing back. He nuzzles at Viktor’s cheek, and then licks him before curling up against the two skaters.

“No, not _that_ deep love,” Viktor cannot see her face, but he _knows_ Klaudia is rolling her eyes, “but one falls a little in love with every person one is intimate with. And _you_ more than most.”

“What does that mean?” Viktor protests. He reaches up with one arm, elbow bent at an uncomfortable angle, and whacks Klaudia on the hip until she gets groans and gets off him.

“It _means_ ,” she says as she rolls, “that you have a soft heart, my love.”

“Are you being _nice_ to me, Klava?” Viktor asks incredulously. He rolls around until he is on his back, one arm around Makkachin. Klaudia sits on her knees at his feet and frowns.

“It’s an insult, actually. You should be harder.”

“Yes, I should have a heart made of concrete like you.”

“I have a heart like the State,” Klaudia says. She rolls her eyes again and grimaces slightly, “impenetrable, and always correct.”

 

***

The months to summer pass slowly. Viktor takes a two-week break from skating, although he is not really allowed to relax whilst doing so. He travels to several Soviet cities on a celebratory promotional tour, and makes many television appearances. He is presented as Viktor Nikiforov, Soviet hero, and it is _exhausting_. In Moscow, he attends a ceremony at the Kremlin. In Novosibirsk, he goes out drinking in the evening with some other Team USSR skaters, and spends the next day doing interviews completely hungover.

He always forgets just how much he likes Leningrad, when he is traveling around other parts of the USSR. In Leningrad, he can sleep in his own bed, skate at his own rink – his neighbours know him and don’t fawn over him like people elsewhere in Russia do. He can walk his dog in relative peace – when traveling, he isn’t even allowed to _bring_ his dog.

He attends parties with influential people, and this at least is relatively fun. In Minsk, they serve French champagne. He is wearing a suit in a room full of strangers, and the taste reminds him violently of Yuuri’s mouth. He drops the glass away from his face, and Mila asks him what is wrong. She is looking at him as if she knows – and, really, she does.

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

“You’re a terrible liar, Vitya, you know that?” Mila tosses her hair and laughs at him, albeit nicely.

“I never did ask you how that went,” she continues thoughtfully. She presses her hands to her tiny waist and waggles her eyebrows up at him.

“Mila, you’re seventeen,” Viktor says, “I’m _not_ telling you how it ‘went’.”

“Oh, so it ‘went’ like _that_ , did it?” Mila claps her hands together under her chin and laughs delightedly. Viktor sighs. The girl is far too sharp for her own good.

“Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe none of your business?” Viktor tries. This is not successful either. Mila just drapes her arm around his waist and takes the champagne out of his unresisting hand.

“If you’re not going to drink this, do you mind if I do?”

“You would drink it whether I said no or not,” Viktor points out. Mila shrugs, and takes a sip. They stand like that for a moment, watching the party. Mila glances at him sideways – Viktor pretends not to notice. Some way away from them, Georgi has his arm around his girlfriend, and is laughing far too loudly. In the corner, Yakov is holding court with one of the other Team USSR coaches who is based in Moscow. The party is raucous, and there is no one around them.

“Did you know he was American?” Viktor asks suddenly.

“Yes,” Mila says immediately, “didn’t you?”

“No,” Viktor shakes his head, and then takes his glass back from Mila, “that’s the problem.”

“Oh dear,” a grimace passes quickly across Mila’s face, “I thought it was a bit risky, but you both looked so _happy_. It was cute! You two were cute.”

“Thanks,” Viktor says darkly.

“What, you don’t agree?”

Viktor pauses, and Mila grimaces again.

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” she says. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “you couldn’t have stopped me.”

“No, but I could have scared him off,” she giggles, “he was _so_ intimidated by me, didn’t you notice?”

“Was he?” Viktor looks down at her evaluatively. She’s too sweet to seem in the least bit intimidating to him, but he supposes the might seem intimidating to a gay American boy. Something about her decidedly _Slavic_ face. Not that he knows Yuuri is gay, Viktor corrects himself, he might just be…but no, that train of thought is not helpful right now. He pulls his thoughts back – with difficulty – to the party. He looks around the room at plain white walls, decorated with the USSR and BSSR flags.

“…looked _so_ freaked out when he saw me talking to Dima, probably because I was side-eyeing him a little bit, because I _knew_ he liked you –” Mila is still talking.

“You knew he liked me?” Viktor interrupts.

“Vitya, he literally yelled your name, and then went up to you and called you beautiful,” Mila deadpans. As Viktor hasn’t drunk any more of the champagne, she takes it off him again.

“You – you heard that?” Viktor is a little flustered remembering it – in his head, he sees that interaction as being quite intimate, but of course Yuuri had been talking quite loudly, and they _had_ been in a room packed full of other people.

“Ye-es,” Mila says. She hesitates for a moment, but she’s terrible at restraint when there’s gossip involved. “I was actually standing pretty close, I wanted to hear what he said to you,” she admits. Viktor glares at her.

“It wasn’t _totally_ because I’m nosy!” she protests, “I was _kinda_ worried. I mean, he is _American_.”

“Ugh,” Viktor presses his palms to his forehead and shakes his head. Mila giggles.

“But I let you go with him, didn’t I?” she continues, “if he hadn’t passed the test, I wouldn’t have done that.”

“What _test_?” Viktor splays his fingers over his eyes and looks down at the tiny younger skater.

“You have to look happy,” Mila says simply. Her arm is still around his waist and she squeezes herself closer to him for a moment, “you looked like you thought the sun was shining out of his ass, so I was like, whatever!”

“Oh,” Viktor says.

He feels quite touched – he’d had no idea that Mila was so…protective of him? But it’s sweet. She’s sweet.

“Thank you,” he says, once his voice has started working again.

“No problem!” she says, and then narrows her eyes, “he didn’t break your heart, did he?”  
“No-o,” Viktor sighs, “I might have br –”

But then the skating federation representative is there, wanting to talk, and Viktor gets dragged away and into other conversations, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have talked about this in such a public place, wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t left that night, wonders what if, what if, what if.

 

***

In April, long after Viktor has returned to Leningrad and starting training for the new season, Klaudia chain smokes cheap Ukrainian cigarettes on the windowsill. Viktor is drinking cold coffee at her kitchen table, and they are talking. Her apartment is a little dirty – grime on the windows, dishes in the sink, ash on plates and in cups and cigarette butts in the middle of the table. But Viktor is comfortable here – it reminds him of his childhood home, what little he can remember of it.

“I should stop smoking,” she sighs.

“We should all stop smoking,” says Viktor, who doesn’t smoke. Klaudia flicks the ash off her cigarette and down onto the street below. She is eyeing him critically.

“What?” Viktor asks, “what scheme do you have in your head?”

“You know,” Klaudia says, “I don’t think I told you – I’m going to back to Poland.”

Although it is selfish of him, Viktor feels suddenly as if the bottom of his stomach has dropped out.

“What – forever?”

“ _No_ , shithead, only for two or three months. Olychinov is putting together an ice show in Warsaw and he wants me to help choreograph.”

Although her tone is casual, Viktor knows she is excited. It is the way she announces her news, the way her tongue savours the name of her home city. He gets up from the table and goes to hug her. He has to lean awkwardly against the small counter to get his arms around her waist. She drops her cigarette out of the window and holds him around the shoulders.

“I love you and I’m very happy,” Viktor tells her, “but I’m sad you’re leaving me.”

“I know,” she released him, and moves him back by nudging him with her foot, “that’s why I want you to come with me.”

“What – for three months? To _Poland_?” Viktor is shocked and at first his urge is to say no, but then…

“It would be good for you, darling,” she says, “Leningrad is making you sad when it used to make you happy. You need a change.”

Viktor braces himself against the edge of the kitchen table, and considers this. Klaudia is not wrong – he has been off-kilter since Japan (since Yuuri). Or, no. He has been off-kilter for some time. Tokyo just made him aware of it. Although he is remarkably well-travelled, he has never been to Poland. It might be nice.

“What would I do there?” he asks.

“I can coach you, for a time,” Klaudia responds immediately. She has clearly been sitting on this for some time.

“Klava, you’re only seven years older than me.”

“Yes, but I have experience,” Klaudia says, “and it will only be until the end of August at the latest. I don’t know how long it will take yet, but certainly no longer than that. You’ve always done your choreography on your own anyway, and you can do that as well in Warsaw as anywhere.”

“You’re right,” Viktor says slowly, “I don’t think it would _hurt_ my career to get out of here for a while…”

He wanders to the window and peers over Klaudia’s bony shoulder out at the street. The brown houses with street-level graffiti, the brown streets, the brown people walking past in their brown coats with their heads down. There are beautiful places in Leningrad, places remind him that there is beauty in the world. It is just that, ever since the boy with champagne bottle and the kind eyes approached him at a party, he has not been able to find that beauty here.

He decides, then, that he will go to Warsaw with Klaudia. Maybe there he will be able to find something beautiful, something inspiring. Maybe there, he will be able to forget Yuuri Katsuki.

 

***

 

On Tuesday, Lilia comes to the rink. She does not do this often, but Viktor loves it when she does. He was always her favourite. Until recently, of course, but he does not begrudge Yuri his rising success.

The rest of the Soviet skaters tend to avoid her – right now, they are all working on individual pieces on the rink. Yakov is talking to Mila and Valentina, critiquing them on their form. Valentina looks ashamed. Mila just looks indignant. Viktor assumes that Yakov is only being so harsh because he is still a little bit afraid of his ex-wife, and wants to keep busy so he doesn’t have to talk to her. Maybe he’ll tell Valentina about that, so that she feels better. But he’ll probably forget.

“Vitya!” Lilia calls imperiously, and Viktor skates up to the barrier. He kisses her on the cheek, and she holds him for a moment at arm’s length, scrutinising him.

“You should straighten up your Y spin,” she says, “your knee is bending.”

Only Lilia would have noticed this – even Yakov hasn’t called him out for it. Viktor nods.

“I will,” he says, “thank you.”

“Of course you will,” Lilia surveys him coolly. Her large green eyes are as expressive as ever as she surveys him. She seems to be on the brink of saying something, but then she clicks her fingers off to the side and Yuri slopes over with a groan.

“Yes?” he says, a little rudely.

“Don’t be rude,” Viktor and Lilia say simultaneously. Yuri blinks.

“That was creepy,” he says, and then points at Viktor, “and don’t tell me what to do.”

“Sure,” Viktor says, and then ruffles the young boys’ hair – because he is within range, and because he knows that Yuri will hate it. Sure enough, Yuri dives away from him, and pats down his hair with a glare. Lilia raises a cool eyebrow.

“Don’t antagonise my junior skater,” she says to Viktor, who grins.

“Sorry,” he says, to both her and Yuri. She blinks, which is as much of an acknowledgement of the apology as he is likely to get.

“Yura!” Yakov, it seems, has finally run out of excuses for avoiding Lilia, and calls out from the centre of the rink. “Why are you not on the ice?”

Grumbling to himself, Yuri takes off his skate guards and tosses them in the general direction of his bag, before edging past Lilia and stepping onto the ice. Viktor turns to watch him skate off towards Yakov.

“What do you think of him?” Lilia asks unexpectedly. Viktor glances back at her, but her expression is unreadable. Viktor hums, and scrutinises Yuri more closely.

He trains at the Kirov three days a week, where Lilia is his choreographer. He had started skating in Moscow, and transferred to Leningrad only when Lilia had spotted him at the Bolshoi on one of her return visits from Kiev. She had moved back to Leningrad for him, which speaks volumes. Viktor presses his index finger to his lower lip, and contemplates.

Yuri is one of the most naturally graceful people Viktor has ever met – even despite his prickly personality, he has a magnetism to him. He certainly has the determination to do well. Viktor has known him for a year, albeit not well, but he has plenty of observations about Yuri’s skating.

“He has energy,” Viktor says, “but he doesn’t know how to channel it. He doesn’t know how to centre himself, and he pushes himself too hard.”

“Hmn,” Lilia says, “yes. He keeps trying to do quads.”

“Wow,” Viktor huffs out a little laugh, “seriously?”

“Mmn,” Lilia is disapproving. Viktor has to give the kid credit though – he’s certainly persistent, and he has the skills, too –

although not the finesse, or the knowledge that he could seriously hurt himself. That, or he just doesn’t care.

“Fatalistic streak?”  
“Yes,” Lilia says, “not unlike yours.”

This surprises Viktor, and he turns his head sharply to stare at his former mentor. She raises an eyebrow again.

“You think I don’t remember the way you pushed yourself to breaking point constantly?” she says coolly. Viktor shrugs one shoulder.

“I didn’t break, though,” he points out.

“Don’t lie,” Lilia waves a hand, brushing off his feeble attempt at protest. She is right, of course – he did break. Mentally, physically, he has broken, and been put back together more times than he cares to admit. Unable to look Lilia in the eye, Viktor looks out across the ice.

Mila, red hair curling around her face, is working on her choreography now. Slide chassé, arms in 4th, hands twirling through the air. Valentina is spotting her. Georgi is stepping back onto the ice after his break, water bottle in hand. Yuri is doing single loops, over and over. His ear-length blonde hair fluffs out in a cloud every time he jumps, and the line of his body is sure and strong. Yakov is stepping off the ice towards his office, where the phone is ringing. He looks immensely irritated.

“I was going to ask you to take care of Yura,” Lilia says. Viktor is startled.

“But,” she continues before he can respond, “I do not see much point, when you cannot even take care of yourself.”

“I can take care of myself,” he responds, indignant. Lilia waves a hand, dismissing his words.

“No,” she says, “your heart is not in what you do. Something is off. I cannot have a breaking man watching over Yura. He needs to be strong.”

“I slightly object to being called _broken_ ,” Viktor says. Lilia just _looks_ at him – and her glare is practically patented for stripping a person down to their soul. She is the harshest taskmaster Viktor has ever encountered, and there is nothing that she would not sacrifice for beauty. But that does not mean that she does not care.

“So I’m not _great_ ,” Viktor says, “other than as a skater, that is. I can still keep an eye on Yura.”

Lilia does not reply – Yakov is approaching them, and there is something odd about his expression, This could be because he is now in very close proximity to his ex-wife, although _why_ he gets so awkward about it Viktor does not know.

“Vitya,” Yakov says when he gets close enough, “we need to talk.”

Viktor glances at Lilia first – an acknowledgement of deference which makes a muscle underneath Yakov’s eye twitch with irritation. Lilia inclines her head, and walks away. Yakov watches her go for a second, and then steps closer to Viktor, who leans against the barrier.

 “I just got off the phone with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs” Yakov grunts, “and your visa application to Poland has been denied.”

“…What?”

It feels a little like the world has just slipped on its axis. Viktor opens his mouth to say something else, but there are no words, nothing he can think of – has he suddenly gone deaf? Are the words coming out of his coach’s mouth really true?

“As a matter of fact,” Yakov continues, mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval, “from the sounds of it your application was never even processed on our end.”

Viktor may be standing on an ice rink, but this is not why he has suddenly gone cold. His vague daydreams of the cathedral spires and foreign ice rinks of Poland are melting faster than snow next to a fire.

“It seems,” Yakov sighs, “you are not allowed to leave to Soviet Union, Vitya.”

“Not even to Poland?” Viktor whispers.

“Not even to Poland.”

Yakov looks as though he feels sorry for him, although it is hard to tell. He has one of the least readable faces Viktor has ever encountered.

“I’m going to take a break,” Viktor says mechanically. Yakov nods once.

“You can have fifteen minutes,” he says. This secession is evidence that he _is_ sympathetic – but still. All the sympathy in the world will not send Viktor to Warsaw. Viktor goes to the gate, grapples with it for a moment. It will not open, and he shakes it and nudges it with his hip, but it is jammed, and for some reason this is so frustrating to him that he wants to scream – but then is pops open and Viktor stumbles off the ice. He collapses onto the nearest bench and undoes his skates with rough, jerky movements. His hands are shaking. From the other side of the rink, Lilia is watching him – and Viktor knows, he _knows_ , that she is feeling vindicated. She was right, of course, of _course_ she was right, he is absolutely broken. She is always right, especially when it comes to him.

Once his skates are off he leaves them on the bench, and takes off in bare feet and training clothes. He needs fresh air, needs to get out from under the watchful gazes of the people who know him too well, or do not know him well enough.

Outside, the city is humming. People are walking past, and cars and trucks buzz along the roads and across the river. People glance at Viktor as they walk past, and a few even ask him if he is okay. Viktor doesn’t really hear them.

He zips across the road, barely glancing to check for traffic and finds himself standing in front of the barrier looking out across the Neva. Across the water, Old St Petersburg sits, a living architectural memorial to Old Russia. The sky is a pretty light blue with little fluffy white clouds scudding happily across in the breeze.

But none of it – _none of it_ – is inspiring. Viktor wants to _surprise_ people, he wants so badly to impress audiences by doing new things with his skating. But what new things? He is all out of ideas. He is all out of everything that makes him _him_.

He has never expressed it until now, even in his head. It is a dangerous game, to think. It makes one a target. But – all the same. As Viktor stands in the middle of Leningrad, in the city that has been his home for 24 years, as his hair is blown back and forth by the breeze off the water and the traffic behind, as he feels the grain of the concrete underneath the soles of his bare feet, Viktor thinks about how much he wants to leave. He wants to leave the Soviet Union.

It is impossible, of course – he cannot even go to _Poland_. Does this mean he will not be allowed to go to other countries to compete in international competitions? Viktor shoves that thought away very quickly – without international competition, he would be finished as a skater. And without skating, he would be finished as a man. He is nothing without the ice.

But maybe, outside of the USSR, he could be more?

 

When Viktor returns to the rink, he asks his coach if he knows why his visa has been denied. Yakov sucks his teeth and frowns.

“I am not sure,” he says, “although I think I may know – but if I know, then you also know.”

Cryptic.

“Will I be allowed to skate internationally?” Viktor asks anxiously. Yakov’s eyes narrow.

“I will ensure that you do,” he says darkly, “you are my star, Vitya. I will not let you be diminished.”

 

***

 

On the day that Klaudia leaves for Poland, Viktor leaves for the rink at four am. The city is dark, and still. The metro does not run this early, so he walks. His footsteps are swallowed by the darkness.

The route between his apartment and the rink goes past Klaudia’s apartment block. He looks up and sees that a light is on and there is a silhouette at the window. She is smoking. He knows that he could go to her door and she would let him in. They would talk, and maybe it wouldn’t be so hard – but then, come six, she will leave and he will stay.

She will go home, to reclaim some fragments of her tattered career, and he will go on to glory. Because that is what he does – he fights and he fights and he wins and he wins, and at some point, it has stopped being enough. He cannot face Klaudia now, so he keeps his head down and walks past. Maybe she sees him, and maybe she knows. Or maybe the night is too complete, and she doesn’t see anyone passing on the street below, because she is looking up and trying to see the stars.

The rink is, obviously, unlit and empty. He has a key and the security code, so lets himself in and flips on the lights as he cuts through the building. He has always liked the stillness of the empty rink – there is something about being alone on the ice ( _really_ alone) – that makes thinking so much easier. Being on the ice is not like being in the real world.

He works on his triple flip. It is already being spoken of amongst skating media as being his signature move, but in truth it is still sloppy. He doesn’t always land it, let alone cleanly, and if he wants it to _actually_ become his signature move, he had better perfect it before the upcoming season. Yakov has suggested that he incorporate it into a combination for his free skate, but he’s a long way away from being able to do that, and it frustrates him.

The added benefit of pushing his body so hard is that there is no room to dwell on unpleasant thoughts. There is only his skates, the ice, the feeling of being airborne, and the pain of the impact every time he misses a landing and hits the ice. He will be bruised black and blue. But it will be good, to be able to feel.

Time is indeterminate on the ice, too. He has been at it for a few hours, he thinks. Or maybe it’s only been twenty minutes. He has landed his last few attempts perfectly, and starts going into it with more speed. It’s too soon to try and put step sequences into the build-up, but maybe…just to see if he can…he goes to the south end of the rink and builds up speed. As he nears the north end he crouches into the extension, picks his right skate, and vaults into the air - one, two, three, four rotations. But he’s miscalculated the distance and the angle and he comes down hard, far too close to the barrier. His right foot lands barely a foot from the edge, and he has time to think ‘thank _God_ I didn’t clear it’ before the momentum catches up with him and he slams bodily against the barrier.

There are starbursts of pain across his ribs, his knee, his ankle. The wind is knocked out of him, he’s gasping for air and for a few seconds it’s like he’s five years old again and he’s skinned his knee and he wants his mother and he’s crying but no one comes – and then he drags in a breath through aching lungs and the biting coldness of the ice beneath his cheek pulls him back to reality.

There is someone skidding across the ice towards him. His eyes are blurry and he can’t tell who they are, but he’s grateful. He was _stupid_ , so God-damn stupid, to have come here alone and tried to do something so risky, and stupider still for fucking it up and hurting himself.

“You fucking _idiot_!” the person says, and Viktor closes his eyes. Of course it is Klaudia. She isn’t wearing skates – she’d run onto the ice in her sneakers.

“I know,” he says, “I know I am.”

Klaudia’s fingers brush across his cheekbone.

“Where have you hurt yourself?” she asks him desperately.

“Broken at least one rib,” Viktor says through gritted teeth, “something to my knee and ankle too. Don’t know what.”

“You do know I’m going to have to call an ambulance, right? You _asshole_? You fucking asshole?”

She’s genuinely angry with him – fine, good. Viktor is genuinely angry with himself too.

“Fine,” he says, “call it and fuck off. Don’t miss your flight for me.”

There is a long pause. The pain is still crashing over him in nauseating hot waves, but at least breathing is getting a little easier. Viktor opens his eyes again. Klaudia is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, kneeling on the ice with her hands held a few inches away from his side. Her lips are pressed together so thinly that they are invisible. There are tears bubbling out from underneath her screwed-shut eyes.

“Out of the two of us, I think I’m the one that should be crying,” Viktor says through gritted teeth, in a pathetic attempt at humour. Klaudia’s hand moves as if to slap at him, but then she thinks better of it, and sighs. Instead she scrubs at her face hard, and leans forward to press a kiss to his temple.

“Don’t move,” she says.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, love,” Viktor replies.

He stays still whilst the slips off the ice to go into Yakov’s office. He hears her call an ambulance, then Yakov, before coming back onto the ice.

“I meant it when I told you not to miss your flight,” Viktor fells her, as she helps him sit up. The movement hurts his chest, and he closes his eyes against the involuntary tears that well up.

“I won’t,” Klaudia says, “that’s why I called Yakov. _He_ can take you to hospital.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asks her. To avoid answering, she asks if he thinks he can stand. He doesn’t, but he lies, and together they manage to heave him upright, until he’s draped across the barrier with his head over the edge. He thinks he’s going to throw up, the movement makes him so dizzy. Klaudia rubs his back until he can breathe, and then helps him slowly off the ice.

“Why are you here?” he asks her again, once he’s collapsed down on a bench.

“I knew you would be here,” she sighs, “and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“You’re only going for three months,” Viktor says shortly.

“I know,” Klaudia sighs, “but you’ll be sad without me.”

The worst kind of joke is the one that is true. Viktor snorts.

“I’ll live,” he says.

“I know you will. Aren’t you glad I _was_ here?” Klaudia says pointedly. From nearby, Viktor can hear voices approaching them – Yakov, mainly, yelling about something, but there are other people with him too.

“Yes,” Viktor whispers. His left arm is resting across his stomach, and he turns over his hand and clicks his fingers until Klaudia intertwines her fingers with his. Haphazardly, he brings it to his mouth.

“Mwah,” he says, “now please go to Poland.”

“So keen to get rid of me,” Klaudia jokes. But she lets go of his hand, and then Yakov is there angrily wanting to know what the _fuck_ Viktor thought he was doing. There is a paramedic or two with him, and some of the other skaters have arrived for early training and are crowding around curiously.

“I tried to do a quad flip,” Viktor says to them, “as you can all see, it didn’t go too well.”

Yakov swears at him, and Mila takes it upon herself to help get him to the ambulance – she is freakishly strong, and is able to carry most of his weight, and Viktor would never admit it but he is grateful that she can take it – he cannot put any weight on his right side, it hurts so badly. She calls him an idiot, too.

I know, Viktor wants to say, but doesn’t.

 

*******

 

One week after the failed quad flip, Viktor is still not allowed on the ice. In the end, it had only been a badly sprained knee and ankle alongside two cracked ribs. The pain has dulled significantly, but he will not be allowed to skate for several more weeks yet. The frustration gnaws at him – he wants to be on the ice, he wants to be moving – but even he isn’t reckless enough to try and skate with unhealed injuries. He would rather be off the ice now for a short while than off the ice forever. He has been helping Yakov with off-ice coaching, and in his down time has been trying to work on the base scores of potential routines.

Tonight, he is wedged into the corner of his sofa. Makkachin is stretched out beside him, taking up most of the room. He is snoring slightly. Viktor has a piece of paper on his knee and is writing out potential scoring for a routine with a little blue pencil stub. The TV is on the background. Viktor is not usually good with keeping up with the news, or current events at all – his life is so focused on the ice that it can be hard to be aware of anything else.

He’ll be doing a triple flip in his routine, of course…should he do it in combination? That would certainly increase its value, although it’s hard to know what he’s capable of without being on the ice. Could he use a triple axel? No, obviously not – he shakes his head and tuts at himself for even thinking of it.

The news anchors on the TV are cut away, and replaced with an empty podium. This catches Viktor’s eye – it seems a speech is going to be made. Maybe he _should_ listen more to current events, seeing as he can see that the city on the screen is Leningrad, and evidently something vaguely important is happening. Viktor’s attention is caught – or at least, it is caught enough for him to give up the scoring as a bad job.

It seems that Gorbachev is going to be giving a speech. Viktor tucks his paper and pencil in beside his sleeping dog, and curls over his knees. This position does nothing to help his hearing or his concentration, but it does stretch his lower back. Gorbachev begins his speech by referring to some earlier talk he had given at the CPSU about his vision for the future of the USSR. But then he then talks about restructuring the economy, and the crowd shifts and mutters in response – now that _is_ interesting.

“Hear this, Makka?” Viktor tells his dog, whose ears twitch. Gorbachev talks about the inadequate living standards across the entirety of the USSR, and the slowing down of economic standards, and many other things which no one really dares to talk about.

Watching it makes Viktor feel strange – it defies everything that he knows, everything that he has been taught, to hear a Soviet leader show anything other than unrelenting optimism for the state of the federation. He has read other speeches given by other countries’ political leaders – when in the US, or Canada, or Sweden, he has seen things on TV where politicians admit their failures, admit that there are things that should be changed.

But this has never happened here before. There is an itching realisation in the back of his head, something that he does not want to scratch. But hope, like an ocean, is difficult to dam. If the USSR is going to open its economy, then maybe it will open society, too? Viktor does not for a second believe that his home nation will ever stop being _communist_ , but it seems – against all rationality and expectation – that it may change, all the same.

And if _society_ opens, does that mean…?

It has been weeks since Viktor has thought about Tokyo. He has persuaded himself that it didn’t matter, that it was nothing, that he can continue on which his life as if nothing has changed. And then he had been blocked from going to Poland, and his repression had been proven to be a good idea, because what if he was never allowed to leave again? But now…maybe…?

Maybe he will be able to talk to Yuuri, to explain why he left. Maybe he will be able to explain that it wasn’t _him_ , it was his country. And maybe his country won’t be an obstacle anymore. Maybe, _maybe_ , Viktor will be allowed to leave. It is all hypothetical – Viktor doesn’t really know what it means, doesn’t know anything about politics or economics, he only knows what is in front of him right now. But it will have to be enough.

Inspired for the first time in months, he snatches up the discarded paper and pencil, and begins to scribble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently in american spelling 'synch' is spelled 'sync'. wild.


	4. three- chicago

June 2nd, 1985 – CHICAGO, USA  


 

It is a Friday morning, and Yuuri does not want to get out of bed. Technically he’s under no obligation to, seeing as he’s twenty years old and home from college for the summer, but there’s something so _teenage_ about languishing all day. Yuuri feels like he should be up and about, being productive, _doing things_! Being a functional adult and contributing to society!

The sun is shining through his yellow curtains – the bright, clear light of early summer. It’s probably a beautiful day outside. Yuuri just sighs, and rolls over.

From this side things look even worse than usual. There are several posters, up close and personal to his nose. He should probably take them down – he only _stays_ here during the summer, and honestly it’s a bit weird, all things considered. But Yuuri likes having Viktor’s face plastered all over his wall. His room would feel naked without all the skating posters. He’s been meaning to remove them ever since Tokyo, but that feels too much like letting go.

With an angry huff, Yuuri rolls over again. He trains intensively over the summer, and this is a rare day off – usually he’d have been and gone from the gym already. That’s justification enough for staying in bed all day, right? Six days a week he gets up at five to go to the gym – he _deserves_ his rest. But that rings false, even to him.

In all honesty, he’s just having a bad day. The beauty of a balmy Chicago summer, the lure of an afternoon at the lake with his rink mates later…none of these things appeal. He feels drained and shaky and nervous today, and everything is awful.

Yuuri’s bedroom door creaks open. There is the tip-tap of claws on wood, and Vicchan jumps onto the bed. Yuuri’s little toy poodle, named after Viktor Nikiforov (there’s some irony there, but Yuuri tries not to think about it), comes nosing up the bed and splays out on his chest with a little doggy exhale. Yuuri doesn’t speak, but he does fetch a hand out from underneath the duvet to scratch his dog behind the ears. Even though he kind of can’t breathe with all this weight on his chest, he feels a little bit better.

His door creaks open a little wider, and Mari sticks her head in.

“Dude,” she says, “are you still sleeping?”

“Yes, obviously,” Yuuri says. His voice is croaky.

“Bro, it’s nearly noon.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs. Mari waits for a moment to see if he will elaborate, but when he doesn’t she comes in and shuts the door. There is ritual that they used to have, but which hasn’t been acted out in a long time. When they were kids, and Yuuri had a nightmare or an anxiety attack or just a shitty day, Mari would sometimes come and lie on his bed, and tell him banal stories about her latest celebrity crushes or friendship dramas. It operated in reverse, too – whenever Mari needed to not be alone, Yuuri would come and lie with her, and tell her stories – usually about Viktor Nikiforov’s latest exploits on the ice.

Now that they’ve grown up, they rarely get the opportunity to revisit their childhood traditions. Mari works full time, Yuuri’s away at college – and so it goes. Whenever they’re in the same place at once, they’re just as likely to antagonise each other as to comfort. Today, however, is not one of those days.

Mari tips herself onto the bed and stretches out. She’s a little taller than Yuuri – as she stretches her feet out, her toes brush the end of his bed. Vicchan sticks his head up only to yawn.

“What’s up, little bro?” Mari asks.

“I dunno,” Yuuri says, which is Katsuki-code for ‘lots of things that I don’t feel like talking about yet.’

“Sick,” says Mari, “do you wanna hear about Sally?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says. His face is pressed mostly into the pillow and his eyes drift closed, but he listens to Mari as she talks about the latest drama with her friends.

“…so then _she_ told Jerry that he may as well just leave – which he did, but he took all the beer with him.”

“Wow.”

“I know right? Anyway,” Mari sighs, “what’s the latest in the world of figure skating? How’s Viktor going? You didn’t say anything about him when you came home.”

Reality, as always, has found a way of sneaking back in. Yuuri opens his eyes.

“Well,” he says, “you know how I’m gay?”

“For Viktor? Yes.”

“Ha.”

“Sorry, do go on.”

“Ah, well,” Yuuri squiggles his shoulder, trying to work up the courage to tell his sister the secret that’s been weighing on his tongue for three months now.

“Viktor is gay too.”

“How do you know?” Mari asks. She sounds a little sceptical, and really Yuuri can’t blame her – as far as she knows, he could just be projecting. There is a long pause, as Yuuri opens his mouth and closes it, opens it and closes it again. He can tell Phichit about this sort of thing easily – or semi-easily, at least. He can even talk about it with Takeshi. But it’s hard to talk about with his sister. All the same, he wants to say it – if partially because he wants an excuse to remind himself that it was real.

“Because I nearly had sex with him,” Yuuri blurts, and then buries his face in his pillow so he doesn’t have to watch Mari’s reaction. Vicchan moves with a yelp, and goes to curl up at the foot of the bed instead.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says. There is a long pause, and then – “ _Really_?”

“Mmn,” Yuuri mumbles into his pillow, “it was after Worlds…”

“Why ‘nearly’?” Mari asks. Yuuri turns his face just enough to glance at her. She’s lying on her back with her arm behind her head, looking up at the stars stuck to the ceiling.

“Oh, uh…well…we were…but then he left,” Yuuri mumbles incoherently.

“Why though?”

“I don’t know!” Yuuri wails, a little louder than he means to, “I’ve been trying to work it out ever since, but I just don’t know!”

“When you say ‘nearly had sex’,” Mari says slowly, “do you mean…?”

“Well, he was taking my pants off when he freaked out about me being American and booked it,” Yuuri says, a little sheepishly. Mari grimaces.

“Okay, on second thoughts, maybe I don’t actually need the full 411 on your sex life,” she says. Yuuri shudders.

“God forbid,” he agrees.

“So like…” when Mari frowns, her entire face scrunches up. She’s doing it now – nose wrinkled, eyes disappearing into the curves of her cheeks, mouth a ruched up circle. “When you say he freaked out about you being American…”

Yuuri squirms a little – he’s suffering second hand embarrassment from his own rejection, and it’s surprisingly painful.

“Yeah, he seemed real, I dunno. Uncomfortable about it,” Yuuri sighs.

“How did he miss the fact that you were American, though,” Mari muses, “surely he noticed your accent? Or your skate?”

“I figured he hadn’t seen my skate,” Yuuri sighs. He doesn’t really like to think about _that_ , either – although most skaters don’t get to see others performances unless in the same group, it’s still a little…disappointing? Sure, Yuuri has skated on the same ice as Viktor, but Viktor hasn’t _seen_ him, so what’s the point?

“God, it’s such a mess,” Yuuri mumbles. He rubs his face hard, and then just doesn’t move his hand.

“Well, I don’t disagree with you,” Mari sighs. She pats him on the head. “Sex makes everything harder. Ha, harder.”

“No sex puns in my bedroom, please,” Yuuri says, but he snorts despite himself.

“Suit yourself,” Mari says, “I know I’m hilarious.”

With a groan, she gets up off the bed. Yuuri moves his hands off his face to watch her saunter to the door.

“Seriously,” she says, turning back to him in the doorway and pointing finger guns at him, “go and have a shower. You smell.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says as she shuts the door. But he feels a little better now – or, if not better, at least slightly more motivated to roll out of bed and stumble to the shower. He’s still thinking about Viktor though. His mind goes round and round and circles, oscillating like a pendulum between sadness and sexual frustration. He could never have admitted it to his sister, but it’s that which really gets him. He’s always thought of Viktor in _that_ way, but having _had_ him – it drives him up the wall sometimes.

When he gets into the shower, the water is nearly hot enough to scald. He stands underneath the flow for a moment, face tilted towards the shower head and eyes screwed tightly shut. When he opens his eyes again, the bathroom is full of steam. Yuuri has forgotten to turn the fan on. For a moment, he hovers at the edge of the stream, trying to decide if it’s worth it to leave the deliciously warm water. But the steam is kind of nice. It makes him feel like he’s in his own little world – invisible, and safe.

They are out of shower gel – Yuuri will have to use soap today. It dries his skin out, but he can’t deny that there’s something…nice about spreading the soap with his own hands instead of a loofah. He’s never been one for touching himself – he has always struggled with his body, sometimes hating it, other times only tolerating it. And none of the illicit blowjobs received in his life (okay – all two of them) have ever really done anything to boost his self-esteem. His conversation with Mari earlier still lingers in his mind – his conversation about Viktor. Yuuri has rarely allowed himself to think of the _details_ of that night since immediately after it happened. He thinks about how much it hurt when Viktor left, sure – because there is nothing Yuuri loves more than self-flagellation – but very rarely does he allow himself the very specific kind of torture that comes with remembering what Viktor was really like.

But the steam and the noise of the water can hide all manner of sins.

Just this once, Yuuri remembers. He remembers the heat of Viktor’s body against his, crushed into the corner of the elevator, crowding through the door, on the hotel bed. He remembers the sharp lines of Viktor’s stomach, his neck marked by Yuuri’s teeth. He remembers the way Viktor looked when he was on top, what the brush of his fingers felt like. With all this memory to build on, taking his imagination further is almost too easy.

Yuuri presses the palm of his left hand flat against the tiles. The fingers of his right hand he traces lightly across his stomach through the last traces of soapy residue. He think about what Viktor might have looked like with his shirt off his shoulders, belt undone. What it would have felt like, to sit in his lap and grind against him. How Yuuri would have kissed down Viktor’s neck, across his chest, down those beautifully defined hipbones. Yuuri can almost taste Viktor’s skin on his tongue even now.

The water is hot on his shoulders and neck, coursing down his face. He moves his hand lower. Thinks about the noises Viktor would have made, if only Yuuri had had the time to go down on him. He imagines Viktor’s hands pulling on his hair. But if it had been the other way around – fuck – what would Viktor have looked like, hair a mess and licking his lips, cheeks hollowed out and –

Yuuri’s left hand slips off the wall as he comes. He presses it over his eyes instead, and opens his mouth in a choked-off gasp. Water gets in. He swallows it.

And then he’s standing in the shower, with cum dripping off his right hand into the flow of water, and it was all just a daydream, made worse by its proximity to the truth. Yuuri feels hollow, and uncomfortably warm, and dirty in the worst kind of way.

Yuuri escapes quickly – out of the shower, out of the steam-filled bathroom. He doesn’t try and check his reflection as he leaves – there is nothing he wants to face less than himself.

 

***

 

It is not strictly necessary for Yuuri to drive himself to the beach. Andrew, another skater from the club, had offered to pick Yuuri up on his way past, but… there’s just something off about that whole thing, now. Ever since he got back from Tokyo he’s felt weird about Andrew, and he feels terrible, but he…just can’t.

Traffic is terrible, and it’s hot and by the time Yuuri gets to the lake, he wishes he had never gotten out of bed. He could use another shower, too – although not for _that_ reason. He’s just sweaty and gross.

He spots Phichit from yards away – dressed in an obnoxious pink and blue shirt, he’s pretty hard to miss. He’s standing with his back to the carpet, a beach ball tucked underneath his arm. There’s a crappy old boombox at his feet. He’s talking to Rosie and Anna. Andrew is setting up towels a few feet away. Yuuri really doesn’t feel ready for socialisation today – but he’s here now, and Rosie sports him before he can act on his urge to run away.

She is another skater from the club, too – roughly the same height as him with long blonde hair and brown eyes. Yuuri finds her to be just a little bit _much_.

“Yuuri!” she calls. Phichit turns and looks over his shoulder. Yuuri raises a hand awkwardly. Rosie slithers around Phichit and makes a beeline for him. Luckily, Phichit stops her before she can try and hug him – he throws the beach ball with a hard serve directly at Yuuri, and it hits him in the chest. He wraps his arms around it and holds it like a shield. Rosie just tosses her hair and grins.

“How _are_ you?”  
“Uh, I’m fine?” Yuuri shrugs. Rosie then proceeds to talk his ear off, yammering on about her day, and about her brother, and about her boyfriend and his dog. Yuuri listens with half an ear to this part – Stephen has a Samoyed, and he is adorable, and Yuuri never really minds being told stories about dogs. As he tried his best to _not_ listen to Rosie, he watches Andrew.

He is a pairs skater – he partners with Anna, his cousin. He stands now, dusting off his hands on his pants, and goes to the cooler to grab a drink. As he straightens, he meets Yuuri’s eye and grins.

Andrew has a square jaw, and ash blonde hair that falls in messy waves across his eyes. He and Yuuri have…a history, and it has never been resolved. Disengaging himself from conversation with Rosie, Yuuri approaches him. He tells himself that he is only getting a drink.

“Is there coke?” Yuuri asks.

“Yeah, we have the old stuff,” Andrew has just opened a can of his own, but he hands it to Yuuri.

“It’s fine,” he says when Yuuri tries to protest, “I can just get another one – honestly.”

The thing is – the thing is. If Tokyo had never happened, if Yuuri had never met Viktor, if Yuuri had never gotten what he had always wanted – then maybe he and Andrew would have had a chance. Before last season, Yuuri had thought that he might have had feelings for Andrew. There had been moments, glances…but now just doesn’t feel it, and in the three months since Tokyo, Yuuri hasn’t had the heart to tell him that there’s just nothing there anymore.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, “thanks.”

“You got here alright?” Andrew asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Yuuri scrubs at his hair to make it stick up more, “traffic was quite bad, but…”

“Aw, you should have taken me up on my offer of a ride,” he says. He nudges Yuuri’s shoulder with his.

“Ah, I know,” Yuuri says, “I just kinda. Wanted to drive myself. You know?”

“You like your independence, huh?” Andrew grins, and Yuuri nods. Andrew _does_ get it – or well enough, anyway.

“Yeah, well,” Yuuri hunches a shoulder, and turns towards the ocean. The water is sparkling, and filled with bodies – teenagers, families with children – even a couple who look to be about ninety, wading in the shallows.

“When I was a kid, I thought if I squinted hard enough, I’d be able to see Canada from here,” Andrew says.

“Ha – really?” Yuuri turns north and narrows his eyes. Andrew snorts.

“Don’t mock me. Everyone has dumb moments when they’re seven.”

“Ooh, debatable,” Phichit bursts into their conversation. He nudges Andrew aside so he can get into the cooler, “I, personally, have always been a genius.”

“I think you flatter yourself a little _too_ much,” Yuuri says. Phichit places a hand over his heart.

“I am _offended_ , Yuuri!”

“Aww,” Andrew slings an arm around Phichit’s shoulders, “Yuuri, how _could_ you? It’s alright Phichit, I still love you.”

“I hate you both,” Yuuri says, shaking his head – but he’s laughing. It’s so much easier to slip into a repertoire with fellow skaters, especially these ones – he’s been skating with them for so long now. Yuuri has never found it easy to make friends, but these are his people.

Phichit is propositioned by a neighbouring group of college students, and they are all dragged into a game of beach volleyball. Rosie is their spiker, and she takes her job very seriously. Andrew and Yuuri are at the back, and they are terrible at coordination. Several times, they both go for the ball at the same time and slam into each other.

“I blame the fact that skating doesn’t require teamwork,” Andrew says sheepishly, the third time they have to pick themselves up from the sand, “it’s a pretty self-absorbed sport.”

“You skate pairs,” Yuuri points out, “you have no excuse. You’re just bad a volleyball.”

“That cut deep,” Andrew says, “you’re cruel, Yuuri.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri grimaces – and then the ball comes to him, and he leaps up to smack it away.

After several games, they return to their drinks.

“Did we bring food?” Phichit asks, glancing around with a frown.

 “Oh shit,” Andrew says, “I left it in the car. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll come help,” Yuuri says. With a sigh, Rosie flops backwards next to him and stretches her arm out towards Anna, who pats her arm with a grin. Phichit lies down with his head in Anna’s lap.

Andrew pushes himself to his feet, and then extends a hand to Yuuri to pull him up. He lets go as soon as Yuuri is standing, but for a split second they are standing _very_ close to each other. Yuuri skitters back immediately. He’s probably blushing, so he looks away out across the wide expanse of sand. There are a few less people here now that the afternoon is wearing on – less families, more groups like his. Young people with nothing better to do.

He walks beside Andrew back towards the parking lot, lagging half a step behind. He keeps looking over at Andrew, trying to see him any way other than objectively. But he just…can’t. When they step over the chain link fence that separates the sand from the asphalt, Andrew glances back and catches Yuuri staring. Yuuri flicks his gaze straight ahead quickly, but he can see Andrew smiling out of the corner of his eye.

Because he’s very deliberately _not looking_ , Yuuri doesn’t notice that they have reached Andrew’s car. Andrew stops walking to dig his keys out of his pocket, and Yuuri walks into his shoulder. He is solid, and Yuuri isn’t expecting it. Andrew reaches out an arm to catch Yuuri, and drops his keys in the process. They fall to the ground with a clink.

“Hey, careful,” Andrew says. His arm is around Yuuri’s waist.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. Andrew kisses him.

For a moment, Yuuri doesn’t react. Andrew raises his hand and cups Yuuri’s jaw, opens his mouth slightly – is Yuuri kissing back? Shit.

He pulls back. Andrew follows him forward for a moment, but then realises and pulls back. He stays close, though. Yuuri can see the freckles on his nose.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says.

“Hmn?”

“I – I can’,” Yuuri’s voice breaks, so he clears his throat and tries again, “I can’t do this.”

Andrew blinks – Yuuri can see the light shining through his fair eyelashes as they sweep down, then up again. Slowly, his hand slips down from Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri feels nothing – which makes this all the worse.

“Oh,” Andrew says, “I’m sorry, I thought –”

“No, it’s…” Yuuri has never been in this situation before. He doesn’t know what to say, he feels so awkward and useless and utterly out of his depth. Feelings are a fragile game, and he doesn’t know the rules.

“I met someone,” he says, because it’s true, “and I just. Don’t feel that way about you anymore?”

“Did – did you ever?” Andrew blinks, and blinks again, and with every blink he moves further and further away, first pulling back and then stepping, until he is leaning against the door of his car and closing himself off until he is as unreachable as the clouds.

“I think so,” Yuuri says. He shuffles his feet, knots his fingers together in the pocket of his hoodie, _hates_ himself for having this and wanting more. Wanting what he knows he can never have.

“Phewoh,” Andrew says. He blows out a breath and laughs awkwardly, “that’s harsh, dude.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says again, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Andrew says, even though it isn’t, “it happens, right? Who is he?”

He says this with no hard feelings, genuinely curious, genuinely happy for Yuuri even though he must be feeling terrible. Yuuri rubs the back of his neck without paying attention to the movement. His face feels hot, and he feels that weird squirmy-sick feeling that comes when thinking about a heavy crush.

“Just someone on the circuit,” he says, “when I was in Japan.”

“Congrats, dude,” Andrew says. His smile is a little forced, but he is genuine – he does not know how to be anything but. “I’m really happy for you.”  
“It’s not –” Yuuri shrugs, “I mean – I don’t know if it will work out. Sorry again. I wish I could, I…”

“No, trust me, Yuuri,” Andrew says. His hand twitches and he hesitates for a moment, but then it drops back to his side, “It’s no big deal. Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, “I guess so.”

“Well, um,” Andrew shrugs his shoulder up and down, “I guess – I’ll bring the food back to the others?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says,” I’ll…come back in a bit. I’ll just...” he bends down and picks up Andrew keys. Andrews takes them from him with a smile. Yuuri watches him unlock his car and grab a couple of picnic baskets. He hesitates a moment, half-turned towards Yuuri. Somewhere above them, a seagull screams.

“I guess I didn’t need your help after all,” Andrew says, “there’s only two baskets.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees. Andrew shrugs and smiles sheepishly and turns to go. Yuuri watches him walk away. He can look objectively at this man – see the way his shirt clings to his broad shoulders, admire how good is ass looks, see the sand fall away from his calves as he strides across the expanse of the beach. But he’s not Viktor. _God_. He’s not Viktor.

Yuuri can’t deal with this anymore – can’t go back and see Rosie and Anna and pretend that everything is fine, when he and Andrew know it is not fine, when Phichit will take one look at him and _also_ know it is not fine. Yuuri doesn’t want to talk about it.

So instead he turns and heads back to his car. So maybe he’ll make things worse by disappearing randomly, by running away. But it’s the easiest option. It had been a mistake, ever getting up today.

 

***

Phichit, of course, asks Yuuri what happens. He calls that evening, but Yuuri doesn’t answer – he is sleeping. Mari wakes him up later to tell him, but Yuuri doesn’t call back. Phichit gives it a few days, then calls again. This time Yuuri answers, but avoids the subject, and Phichit knows Yuuri well enough not to push it. He knows that either Yuuri will tell him when he is ready, or if things seem to be deteriorating, Phichit will press the issue.

Things come to a head three weeks after the skater’s trip to North Avenue. Phichit and Yuuri are dry training at Minako’s ballet studio. It is on top of a video store one floor up from the road. The studio that they are using is equipped with several wide windows, offering a good view of the street down below. Yuuri is taking a break, doing some gentle stretches and sipping from his water bottle. With his leg up on the barre, he has a pretty decent view out of the window.  
There is a coffee shop across the road. Yuuri is watching idly, not really paying attention – but then he does a double take.

“Is th –” he starts to say, but then cuts himself off. It _is_ Andrew, he is sure of it – Andrew, with his broad shoulders and blonde hair, holding a coffee in one hand and the hand of a lanky dark-haired guy in the other. Yuuri’s leg slips off of the barre in shock. He moves closed to the window, squinting down the street.

Are they really holding hands? Yuuri wishes his eyesight was better. As he watches, the guy Andrew is with reaches a hand across, and Andrew hands his coffee over. They are _definitely_ holding hands. Yuuri’s most objective reaction is – that’s brave of them. His least objective reaction is a powerful rush of jealousy that crashes over him, a sickly red-hot wave. He doesn’t even _want_ Andrew, doesn’t want to date him – but there’s something so _shattering_ about seeing a door, an opportunity so firmly and irrevocably closed.

Phichit, interest drawn by Yuuri’s half-bitten question, comes over to look out of the window. It takes him a moment to work out what Yuuri has seen, but Yuuri hears his little gasp when he works it out.

“Who’s _that_ dude?” he says. Yuuri can practically _hear_ the cogs turning in his friend’s brain as he tries to put together all the pieces, make all the connections between people that Andrew has mentioned, or Anna has alluded to, or that Andrew has ever been seen in the presence of. Yuuri wishes he had Phichit’s nose for stories – because this is one that he desperately, nonsensically wants to understand.

“Who is he?” Yuuri asks, when no immediate answer seems forthcoming.

“Haven’t the faintest,” Phichit sighs. He sounds a little distracted – Yuuri figures he’s still trying to work it out. Yuuri stares at Andrew’s retreating back until he is out of sight, and waits for Phichit to return to earth.

“I thought,” Phichit begins. Yuuri looks over at him.

“Yeah, apparently, he moves on fast,” Yuuri says. And, God, when did he get so _bitter_?

“Suck on a lemon,” Phichit advises. Sometimes Yuuri hates how Phichit can read his mind.

“Maybe I should,” Yuuri says, “I don’t know _why_ , I just feel…”

“A bit rejected?” Phichit guess.

“Well,” Yuuri’s shoulders sink, “yeah.” Phichit just hums thoughtfully.

“I know I don’t… I know I have no _right_ ,” Yuuri says, “but…well. Damn.”

“So,” Phichit turns himself sideways so that he is facing Yuuri, and crosses his arms, “does this mean you’re ready to tell me what’s up?”

“Ugh,” Yuuri rolls his head back and stares up at the dusty ceiling, “not really, but I guess I have to, huh?”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Phichit says, He is probably rolling his eyes.

“Nah, I don’t know,” Yuuri shrugs, “he kissed me, I said I didn’t have any feeling for him, it was awkward, I went home. That’s it. That’s the story.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Phichit says, “why does it bother you so much, though? That it happened.”

“It’s not that it on its _own_ bothers me – it’s more that… I just feel _bad_ , you know?” Yuuri moves away from the window, rests his palms on the barre behind him and flexes his feet. Keeping his body busy, so he doesn’t have to think too deeply about what he’s saying.

“Like – I _used_ to like him, but then _Viktor_ happened, and I just _can’t_ feel that way about Andrew anymore, and I hate myself for rejecting him for one night and a stupid pipe dream.”

“Do you feel like it’s a mistake, though?” Phichit probes, “like maybe you made the wrong choice?”

“No,” Yuuri says immediately. Deep down, he doesn’t regret his choice. He just regrets that now, having made it, there is no back door which he can escape from.

The next afternoon, they are back on the ice. It is late. The rink isn’t really large enough for everyone to train at once, so Yuuri takes a break whilst Phichit works at one end, and Andrew and Anna work at the other. Celestino is on the ice, alternating between both of them. Yuuri sits with a water bottle in one hand a towel around his neck, trying to work out compositions for his short program. The new season is fast approaching. He idly wonders if he could try the triple flip.

There is a clattering noise. Yuuri looks up. Rosie has appeared next to him, a full bag of costumes in her arms. She is evidently set on sitting next to him.

“You ok?” she asks him.

“Uh, yes?”

“Oh, you looked like you were wigging out,” Rosie shrugs and grins, and then sits down and starts sorting through the costumes. Whilst Yuuri is glad Rosie apparently isn’t dead set on having a conversation, he’s a bit annoyed that she just said he looked like he was ‘wigging out’. He’s not wigging out! That’s just his face!

He goes back to his planning, irritated. But then there is an exclamation from the rink, followed by a scream.  Yuuri glances up. Beside him, glittery costumes go flying as Rosie sprints towards the ice. Anna is sitting on the ice with one hand pressed against her mouth. Celestino and Phichit are zooming towards Andrew, who is sprawled on the ice. Fear is like an icy fist, twisting Yuuri’s stomach into knots.

Shedding his belongings to either side, Yuuri dashes after Rosie. Before he even reaches the ice, Celestino barks at him to go and summon the first aid team. Yuuri doesn’t even have anything to tell them. He had no idea what happened, where Andrew is hurt, what’s even going on. He only knows that an accident on the ice can easily be devastating.

“He just fell,” Anna is saying when Yuuri returns, “we were working on the spin, and he let go and I hit the ice and then he was just _lying_ there –”

“Is he conscious?” Yuuri asks whoever is around to listen.

“Yeah,” Phichit says, “but he’s pretty woozy.”

Yuuri leans his forearms on the barrier and peers across the ice. He feels too awkward. He wants to go onto the ice, but he’s never been good in tense situation, _especially_ tense situations involving medical emergencies. And although things haven’t really _been_ awkward with Andrew, Yuuri just feels like it would be too much. He clenches and unclenches his fists. The movement helps to keep him calm.

The skaters gather together nervously, watching as the paramedics arrive, as they brace Andrew’s neck – “Just a precaution,” Phichit murmurs – as Celestino leaves. Rosie and Anna approach Yuuri and Phichit, and they all huddle together. None of them can even think of going back on the ice now.

“We should go to the hospital,” Anna says what they are all thinking. Everybody scatters – they arrived separately, and nobody likes to leave their cars at the rink overnight. Yuuri is distracted as he drives – he nearly runs a red light, and gets honked at several times. Everything is going around and around in his head, and he still feels that weird ice-water feeling of worry. He arrives at the hospital first – probably due to his reckless driving. No one else is around, and he doesn’t know where to go – the ER? The main reception?

He ends up loitering by the doors until Anna arrives, and they go in together. She makes a beeline for a payphone to call Andrew’s parents and Yuuri has to awkwardly stand outside, pretending that he can’t hear her conversation. Phichit arrives next, and they stand together, not talking. Yuuri has never _hated_ hospitals – they’re not exactly his favourite place to be, but they don’t make him excessively anxious or alarmed. The constant ebb and flow is – not soothing, per se, but a reminder that the world is bigger than he is.

Anna is the only one allowed to be admitted to triage.

“Only two people,” the nurse insists, “I’m sorry.” She’s kind enough about it. Yuuri isn’t sure whether he would want to be in triage with Andrew anyway – everything is still too close, too personal. But loitering in the waiting room with Phichit and Rosie is almost worse. Rosie muses every five minutes about how she thinks Andrew is doing, and Phichit, who is usually a calming presence, is bursting with nervous energy. He taps his feet, twitches his knees, drums his fingers against his thighs. His neck is constantly craning.

The longer they wait, the darker it gets outside. No one comes to retrieve them. They all slip into a fugue state. They are all exhausted. At about 8:30, Phichit twitches up from his seat.

“I need coffee,” he says, “do you two want anything?”

Rosie digs in her handbag and pulls out a few dollars.

“Can you get me a water?” she asks. Phichit takes her money and disappears in search of a vending machine, or a café, or something. It is just Yuuri and Rosie left to wait.

“How are you doing, Yuuri?” Rosie asks him after a few moments have passed. Her voice startles Yuuri out of a deep reverie.

“Huh?”

“It’s okay,” Rosie says – her voice is sickly sweet and kind, and it sounds false, even though Yuuri knows that she is genuine. She puts her arm around his shoulder, and Yuuri stiffens. “I know this must be hard.”

“Why?” Yuuri asks. Why does she think that this is any harder for him? He suspects that he knows what she is going to say, but he wants to hear her say it. There is a part of him – the cold, detached part that emerges when he is performing on the ice – that loves to drag the darkest part of others into the light. He can skate, feeling his routine, and in the back of his mind he will be criticising Celestino, critiquing Phichit, coolly examining himself in relation to others. Maybe it’s the only truly honest part of himself. He hates it, all the same.

“Why is – it hard?” Rosie twists her shoulders to look at him better. There is a deep line of confusion in between her nearly-invisible eyebrows.

“Why is it okay?” Yuuri asks. It isn’t what he means.

“Oh, I just meant that I know it must be hard,” Rosie says, “the Lord knows that obviously, this must be _terrible_ for Andrew, but it can’t be easier for you either. I mean,” she lowers her voice in confidence, “he is your boyfriend.”

She raises her left arm as if to hug him. Yuuri instinctively shoves her away. He feels antsy, twitchy, in a way he can’t explain.

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Yuuri says – too loudly. A nurse, crossing in front of them to the station, glances across at him. She looks alarmed. Yuuri does not blame her – he is a little bit disgusted with himself, too.

“Oh,” Rosie frowns, “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I just assumed –”

“Well, don’t, please,” Yuuri snaps.

“Hey,” she says, “I know you’re stressed out – it’s okay, you know?” he raises her arm to try and hug him again. Yuuri reacts impulsively, puts his hands up in front of him. He doesn’t want to be touched. He’s not _weak_ , he doesn’t need _this_ , doesn’t want to be here. Rosie’s hair is a noxious yellow in this light, her green sweater too vibrant, her blue jeans dyed a funny shade of olive by the yellowness of the light.

And what if Andrew’s back is broken? It could have been anyone. It could have been _him_. He needs to get out of here.

He doesn’t say goodbye to Rosie, doesn’t say anything at all. He just gets up and walks away, and leaving feels so good that he doesn’t look back. The hallways are a maze – he doesn’t know where he is going, doesn’t know why he feels so _much_ , or even what his feelings _are_.

As Yuuri strides through the hospital, he realises that his hands are shaking. He holds them up to the light – they are blurred. Or maybe that’s just the tears in his eyes. He feels boxed in by his frustration, doesn’t know how to break the glass. He wants to be more than he is.

He can’t breathe.

By some miracle, Yuuri finds a side exit. He expects the doors to be automatic, but they’re not. He stops a bare inch from the plate glass. He’s close enough for his breath to leave a little cloud. It is a little detail that for some reason he will remember for a long time – the fog on the glass, the dark night outside contrasting with greenish-yellow fluorescent light illuminating the hallway.

Yuuri smacks the exit button with the side of his hand, and the doors slide open slowly. Yuuri doesn’t wait for them to be open all the way. He darts through when they are barely open and bangs both of his shoulders on the retreating glass. It doesn’t hurt, but it does add a strangely discernible edge to his anger. It reminds him of all the times he’s been walking or dancing and accidentally caught the cord of his headphones on something and yanked them out of his Walkman. Inexplicable, and completely irrational fury.

It turns out that the side door is not really an exit. It leads to a terrace, hemmed in on all sides by various hospital buildings. There are a few sad looking concrete squares of dirt. Presumably they once held plants, but now all they’re filled with cigarette butts and empty coffee cups. There are quite a few people hanging out, standing or sitting around. Most of them are smoking.

He came outside to breathe, but it doesn’t really seem like he’ll be able to do that here. He almost goes back inside to find another way out, but he can’t quite bring himself to turn around. Instead, he walks a perimeter. People watch him curiously. It makes him itch. He feels like he doesn’t belong here, and the smell of cigarette smoke scratches his nose and burns his lungs. There is a girl with masses of fluffy blonde hair wearing a tiny red top who _must_ be freezing, but she’s sitting on the back of a bench and watching him pass. He has to step over her feet. It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved.

On the north-west corner of the terrace, there is a gap between two buildings. The main wing to the left, and a parking building to the right. In between them is a narrow, unlit path.

It probably leads to nowhere, and it’s probably a bad idea, but Yuuri goes down it anyway. He steps over the knee-high barrier, nearly twists his ankle on an unexpected tussock of grass, and jogs down the hill. He doesn’t mean to jog, but it’s steep, and as soon as he starts moving he finds he doesn’t want to stop.

There is no dead end – the path cuts right between the two buildings and terminates in the parking lot. Yuuri emerges at a run, nearly gets hit by a reversing ambulance, and just keeps going. Everything has stopped feeling real. It’s night time, and it’s spitting slightly, and the orange light is permeating everywhere. There are some cars, but few people.

He runs to try and forget. There is so much going on in his head, and it’s too _loud_. He wants to keep running forever, maybe head to the rink, or his house, but after a few blocks he realises that this is futile. The hospital is miles away from any place with which he is familiar. He slows to a walk. This is a suburban area and already even just a little way down the road, the street is quiet. With a sigh, Yuuri turns and heads back the way he has come.

For a moment, he considers heading back into the waiting room, going to find his rink mates again, checking on Andrew. But even thinking about it makes him feel awkward and nervous, so instead he gets in the car and leaves. Maybe it’s terrible of him, to be so _relieved_ to be leaving. After all, Andrew may have a devastating injury – but he just can’t _deal_ with it. He can’t deal with anything. God, he loves it when the self-loathing comes out of nowhere and punches him in the gut.

It starts to rain. It beads on the glass, tinted orange in the artificial light. Yuuri does not turn the windscreen wipers on until it is impossible to see. The water runs in rivulets down the windshield. It reminds Yuuri of the torrential downpour in Tokyo.

Sometimes it seems like a dream– everything that Yuuri is holding on to. Like it never even happened.

 

He drives to the rink. It is, really, the only place that makes sense. He doesn’t want to go home, because even if his parents will be sleeping, Mari will probably still be awake, and he’s just not ready to face her. Not ready to face anyone. So he grabs his skate bag out of the car and bangs his way into the rink.

He’s been sitting on idea for a while, something that he wants to try. Now seems like the perfect time.

Yuuri can’t remember all of Viktor’s free skate routine in perfect detail – it’s hard, without the music to work out the timing. He only saw it a handful of times, and with the triple flip only the once. But he always watches Viktor as closely as he can, because Viktor is breath-taking – and this is not the first time that Yuuri has tried to imitate his routines.

He moves with a feverish intensity. His arm movements are too aggressive, all elbow, until he at last calms down a little. How did it go? An inside spread eagle, coming into a single Lutz, and then that thing with his arms, where he held them out…

He may say that he can escape from his thoughts on the ice, and this is not entirely a lie – but it is more that being on the ice helps him articulate his thoughts better, because he can express them physically. Or at least, this is how it works at times like these.

All alone, lights on but nobody around, just him and the ice and the sounds of his blades and the feel of his heart beating. This is why he does it – not for medals or for glory or fame. Because he does not know who he is without it. All his life, he has been searching for … something. He started dancing with Minako when he was three, because as a child he wanted so desperately that beauty of movement. And then he had moved to skating, because ballet wasn’t enough, because he had wanted _more_.

But what _is_ more? Is it winning? Is it being the best? He doesn’t know, has never known. But he is here now, on the ice, and he’s moving and moving, tracing these routines that have been etched on his eyelids. A triple Axel, a triple Lutz, a double toe loop combination. He doesn’t land his first attempt at a triple flip, or his second. He is too impatient. He wants to fly like Viktor, wants desperately to be close to this man who, for all his life, seemed so unattainable.

And maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what really shook Yuuri’s world – finding out that Viktor is only a man. Because it wasn’t Viktor the poster-boy, Viktor-on-ice with his silver hair and sparkling smile that broke Yuuri’s heart. It was Viktor the man – and Yuuri is _mad_ about it.

He lands the triple flip on his fifteenth attempt. He is exhausted. He slides to a gentle stop and presses his hands to his knees, trying to catch his breath. The massive digital clock mounted on the wall is flashing green letters at him. It is 01:12. He really should be getting home. Yuuri has never pushed himself further than his body’s limits. Adrenaline has a lot to answer for though, and he knows he will feel his frantic training in the morning. Maybe he should go into the office, call Andrew’s parents. Maybe he’s been released from hospital?

Now that he is not skating, everything that he took to the ice to avoid comes crowding back in. His life isn’t just Viktor, as much as he would like it to be. There is Andrew, and his feelings of rejection, and he can’t keep skating now because _that’s_ an unhealthy coping mechanism if ever there was one, but _God_.

Yuuri stumbles off the ice and sits down, right on the mat with his feet still on the ice. He has left loops and lines all across the previously slicked surface. They will probably have to smooth it again in the morning.

With trembling fingers, Yuuri undoes his skates. Getting up again takes effort – he has to heave himself to his feet using the gate for support, and bending down to pick up his skates again is torture. He tucks them back into his bag, and then starts to stretch.

This is what he is doing when he hears the automatic doors slide open. There is a jingle of keys being shoved into a pocket. Yuuri, in the middle of a calf stretch up against the barrier, looks over his shoulder as Phichit slopes in.

He looks rough. His pants are crumpled, and the pink windbreaker that he’s chucked on over top of his sweater clashes horribly. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is a mess.

“Homeslice,” he says in greeting.

“’Sup,” Yuuri replies. Phichit slopes over to the bench and throws himself down whilst Yuuri continues his stretches. For a while, Phichit sits upright, but as time wears on, he slumps further and further sideways. Eventually he appears to give up pretending to be awake and alert, because when Yuuri next checks, he’s curled up on the bench. He’s not sleeping, though – Yuuri can see the gleam of his eyes, watching him.

“How’s tricks?” Yuuri asks Phichit eventually, when he’s finished stretching.

“Done?” Phichit checks. Yuuri nods. Phichit shows no sign of getting up though, so Yuuri sits down instead. He slides down the barrier until he’s sitting curled up with his back to the ice.

“How’s Andrew?” his voice sounds small, and not because it echoes in such a large space.

“He’s fine,” Phichit says. Yuuri feels an instant wave of relief. He tips his head back against the barrier with a clunk, and closes his eyes.

“Thank God,” he says, “what was the verdict?”

“Torn a muscle,” Phichit says, “cracked his tailbone. But his back is fine, no slipped disks or anything. And it’s definitely not broken. He’s got a mad concussion though.”

“He’ll be out for the season,” Yuuri says. He immediately regrets it, because it’s such a _cold_ observation.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he amends quickly.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Phichit says, “he was saying that himself. Like, ‘thank God I’m not going to be paralysed but fuck my life because I’m out for the season’ kinda shit.”

“I can’t imagine,” says Yuri, because he can’t. Still warm from his stretches, painfully exhausted from the exertion of being on the ice – he could not image missing a season. Could not imagine being cut off from what he loves for so long.

“He was pretty pissed when I left,” Phichit sighs. Yuuri looks back a him. He hasn’t moved – still curled in a ball, one hand in his pocket. There’s a faint clinking noise – he’s fingering his keys, jangling them in his pocket for something to keep his hands busy.

“I would be too,” Yuuri says.

“He was also, uh, pretty pissed that you left,” Phichit says.

“Yeah, well, I hate myself for that as well,” Yuuri mumbles. Phichit makes a funny squiggling noise which is probably supposed to be a shrug.

“I don’t care,” he says, “I figured you were having a bad anxiety moment. Which, to be honest, I don’t blame you. I hate hospitals.”

“Yes and no,” Yuuri says. It is the hour for confessions – any time after midnight, every space is liminal. He would tell Phichit anything, now. _Will_ tell him, probably.

“It was Rosie, actually,” he says, after a moment. Phichit snorts.

“Do elaborate,”

“She said oh, you know, ‘this whole thing must be terrible for you, because he _is_ your boyfriend,’”

“Jesus,” Phichit says incredulously.

“Fuckin'-ay? And then she tried to hug me, and I just…couldn’t deal with it.”

Even thinking about it now makes Yuuri feel uncomfortable. There’s something hot and putrid in his stomach. Maybe it’s regret, maybe it’s self-loathing. Maybe it’s some other unidentified feeling that Yuuri hasn’t come to terms with yet.

“That’s fair,” Phichit mumbles. He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and rubs his eyes.

“We should go,” Yuuri says.

“Mmn,” Phichit agrees, “can we go back to yours?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. He holds his hands out as Phichit heaves himself off of the bench. With a long suffering sigh, his friend comes over to tug him to his feet. He beckons Yuuri to lead the way and comes along behind, switching off the lights as he goes. They part ways briefly at their cars.

As Yuuri slides into his seat, he has a moment of irrational panic that he is just too tired to drive. His head feels like fog, his hands are trembling with exhaustion, his legs feel like lead. But then the key turns smoothly in the ignition, and the radio comes to live. It is still turned up loud. Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ is playing. The song fits Yuuri’s mind.

And driving is a little like riding a bike, after all. Once you’ve learned how, it becomes instinctive. There is no traffic on the streets this late at night – the city, for all intents and purposes is empty. Yuuri winds down his window and he sings under his breath as the wind plays over his knuckles and ruffles his hair. This entire night feels unreal.

It is a twenty minute drive back to his house, faster due to the lack of traffic. Yuuri runs several red lights – Phichit, trailing him, does the same. The chances of getting a speeding ticket in the middle of the night in suburban Chicago are pretty slim. All the same, when Yuuri pulls into the driveway of his parent's inn, he is grateful. There is nowhere he wants to be more than in his bed.

The house is quiet – everyone is asleep. Phichit and Yuuri take their shoes off in silence, and pad down the hallway to Yuuri’s room. Vicchan is sleeping on Yuuri’s bed, an indiscernible mass of fluff. He raises his head woozily when Yuuri flicks the light on Phichit makes a beeline for him, and the dog is only too happy to roll onto his back so Phichit can scratch his stomach.

Yuuri pulls the trundler out from underneath his bed and then goes scrounging in his wardrobe, searching for a sleeping bag. Phichit sheds his jacket and gets into it immediately, where he proceeds to blink sleepily as Yuuri removes his own sweater and clambers into bed. Vicchan immediately gets off the bed and goes to curl up next to Phichit.

“Traitor,” Yuuri says to him. The dog just curls up and goes back to sleep.

They all lie in the dark in silence for a few moments before Phichit speaks.

“So like, what’s up?”

“I knew this was coming,” Yuuri sighs.

“I mean, you did just like, fuck off running in the middle of the hospital,” Phichit says. Yuuri hears him shifting slightly, and then a yipping sound as he accidentally knees the dog.

“Don’t abuse my dog,” Yuuri says.

“He loves me, and don’t change the subject,” Phichit says, “I’m rolling my eyes at you, by the way. You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes at you.”

Yuuri sighs. He knots his fingers in his quilt for something to keep his hands busy.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” he asks.

“I’m now shrugging,” Phichit narrates.

“Thanks, that’s definitely a helpful answer.”

“What’s _really_ going on, Yuuri?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Yuuri sighs, “it feels like everything just comes back to Tokyo.”

Phichit doesn’t reply immediately, but Yuuri hears him sigh.

 “Am I annoying you?” Yuuri asks anxiously.

“No! Yuuri, you’re not bothering me, I swear on the soul of every single hamster I have ever owned. I just genuinely don’t know how to help it all make sense.”

Yuuri flops back on his bed and looks up at the ceiling. It’s still stuck all over with the glow-in-the-dark stars from his childhood. He remembers the afternoon he and Mari spent putting them up – she standing on a stepladder with a crick in her neck, he lying on the floor with an almanac giving her directions.

“Sometimes I get so sick of myself,” Yuuri says now, “I’m so _annoying_.”

“ _Jesus_ , Yuuri,” Phichit says, exasperated, “you’re _not_! I love hearing about your problems.”

“You love hearing about everyone’s problems.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Phichit says, “I like to know everything about everyone, and that includes you and all of your problems.”

“My problems are so _lame_ ,” Yuuri sighs, and then puts on a higher voice, mocking himself: “’Ooh, I like this guy, but I don’t think he likes me!’ _Fuck_.”

He presses a hand against his face. He is struck by a wave of disgust at himself, so strong that he digs his fingers in advertently.

“Yuuri, do you need –?” Phichit asks.

“No,” Yuuri says quickly, “No. Ugh, it’s whatever.”

“Uh, it’s clearly not whatever,” Phichit says, “look, Yuuri – I don’t know why Viktor left, ok? That’s what it comes back to, right?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Do you want to hear my theory?”

“What – you have a theory? And you haven’t told me it yet?”

“Yeah,” Phichit laughs sheepishly. Yuuri can picture his expression _perfectly_ – he’s probably biting back on an awkward grin.

“Alright, shoot,” Yuuri says,

“I think he was scared,” Phichit says, totally unexpectedly.

“What – of being –”

“No – or, maybe actually, I really don’t know, but I don’t _think_ so – nah, I think he was just scared because of the KGB.”

“Phichit, it isn’t 1939,” Yuuri says dryly, “they wouldn’t send him to prison for bagging me.”

“ _Did_ he give you a BJ?!” Phichit sounds incredibly excited.

“ _N_ o,” Yuuri snaps. And great, of course he had to say that, because now he’s thinking about it, and the image of Viktor as he was that night, messy hair, face flushed, shirt undone, on his knees – Yuuri _definitely_ doesn’t need that in his head right now.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Yuuri continues, “that they aren’t going to arrest him, or anything.”

“I dunno,” Phichit says slowly.

“What – you really think they would?” Yuuri blinks. It seems far-fetched, totally ludicrous, but then…Yuuri has never _been_ to the USSR. He doesn’t know what it’s actually like. Really he knows fuck all about the Soviet Union, other than that its cold and filled with Communists.

“I don’t know,” Phichit says again, “I really don’t. But do you remember what it was like after the Károlyi’s defected?”

“No, what, who?” Yuuri has bypassed general unawareness and is now deeply confused. He feels like Phichit has inside knowledge or the state of international politics that he just isn’t aware of, and it’s a little disorienting.

“Yuuri, do you ever watch the news?”

“Yes!”

“Ok, it was in 1981, so I _guess_ I can’t blame you – ”

“Thanks, Phichit,” Yuuri interrupts dryly, “I love being criticised for my lack of current events knowledge four years after the fact.”

“You’re _so_ welcome,” Phichit says sweetly. Yuuri’s butt is starting to cramp. He stretches out his legs with his toes pointed. His back clicks quietly as he rolls over.

“Anyway,” Phichit continues, “you know Nadia Comăneci, right?”

“Not personally,”

“Ha ha, no, well, the Károlyi’s were her coaches, and they were like, super famous and well respected in Romania blah blah blah. But they defected in ‘81, right? And have you noticed that Comăneci hasn’t really left Romania since?” Phichit talks a mile a minute, spilling out gossip/theories like silk from the ass of a spider. Sometimes, Yuuri is left reeling trying to catch up.

“I…hadn’t noticed, no,” Yuuri says slowly, “since I don’t really keep up with gymnastics. Or any sport other than figure skating, really.”

“Okay, aside from the fact that you’re _majorly boring_ because of that, by the way – it doesn’t really matter if you’ve noticed or not, because I’m telling you that that’s the way it is.”  
“I think you’re reaching a bit, Phichit,” Yuuri frowns up at the ceiling, “do you have any confirmation of this, or have you just kind of, made the connections?”

“Okay, _maybe_ ,” Phichit says, “but if we assume that I’m right, then we can also assume that the USSR is still real hardcore about defectors, right?”

“Wha – Phichit, Romania isn’t part of the USSR!”

“No, I _know_ that – look, anyway, my point is –”

“Finally,”

“Shut _up_ , Yuuri – my _point is_ , is that I think Viktor was worried if he was seen with you, then the KGB or the government or someone would think that he was a spy or a traitor, and he’d get put on lockdown like Comăneci!”

Phichit presents his theory with the air of someone who is absolutely convinced that he is right. Yuuri presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose in an exaggerated gesture of tiredness which Phichit cannot see.

“Phichit, I really think you’re looking _way_ too deeply into all of this.” Yuuri says.

“Well, what then, Yuuri? You think Viktor got all the way into bed with you only to decide he isn’t attracted to American boys?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says, and then, “can we _please_ just go to sleep now?”  
Phichit knows better than to push his luck. There is a brief silence, and then Phichit sighs.

“Fine,” he says, “it’s been a pretty shit day.”

“You’re telling me,” Yuuri grumbles. They both lapse into silence, and very quickly Phichit’s breathing deepens, evening out into a light snore.

Yuuri lies awake for much longer. Thinking about Viktor and that night is…weird, and confusing, and Yuuri tries to avoid doing so as much as possible. He’s not very good at it, though. Viktor Nikiforov is always in his head, in one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the _massive_ delay in getting this chapter up - I've just been super busy because I got two new jobs and I've accidentally given myself a massive course load for this semester etc. etc.  
>  anyway - I just wanted to thank y'all for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. It really means a lot to me - know that I read every single comment multiple times, and more often than not they make my day. I just think it's really important to let creators know that you appreciate their work, because it's a massive morale boost, y'know?? So thanks to the people that have left comments so far - I love you all.


	5. four - london

October 23rd 1985 – LONDON, CANADA  


 

It is – unsurprisingly – cold. Phichit snuggles down into his scarf as they step out into the wind.

“I hate Canada,” he grumbles into the wool.

“London is at the same latitude as Chicago, narbo,” Yuuri says with a laugh. But he, too, is nestled into his scarf. Canada always _seems_ so much colder than home, even if it really isn’t. It is only halfway through Fall, but already icy winds are blowing the vibrant leaves from the trees which line the streets into eddies of orange and red which swirl around them as they walk.

Yuuri has never competed in London before. It lacks the frenetic pace of bigger cities like Toronto or Vancouver, but it’s charming. Not that he’s seen a lot of the city – and nor does he plan to. His little excursion with Phichit to walk around the park is really only a brief excuse to stretch their legs and grab coffee. The first competition of the ’85-’86 Figure Skating season officially opens tomorrow.

It is exciting to be back on the circuit again. The pressure is on, of course – even if earlier events aren’t as important as championships or Worlds, doing well still matters to Yuuri. He wants gold, craves it badly – sure, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get it, what with his regularly scheduled pre-skate anxiety attack and the hordes of other brilliant skaters competing, but he is determined. His routines for this season are his best yet, and he just really, _really_ wants to win. But of course, he’d never admit this aloud.

“I live for the donuts here,” Phichit says as he shoulders open the door of the nearest Tim Hortons.

“They’re not _that_ great,” Yuuri rolls his eyes as a blast of warmth rolls over him, “no better than Krispy Kreme.”

“How dare you,” Phichit gasps. He presses a hand over his heart as he makes a beeline for the cabinet.

“You cannot eat those the day before a competition,” Yuuri points out.

“Shut up, Katsudon,” Phichit says.

“Wow. Low blow, dude.”

“Hello, my loves,” Phichit says to the donuts. He presses a hand to the glass. “I’ll be back for you on Sunday, I promise!”

“Don’t be weird, Phichit,” Yuuri laughs, as he gets in line for coffee, “those specific donuts will be long gone by Sunday.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Phichit says, with one last mournful glance at the donuts in their display case. They get their coffees, and then head back to the rink. Technically they probably shouldn’t be drinking coffee the day before a competition either, but Celestino turns a blind eye. He’s the biggest coffee-addict that Yuuri has ever met, and also not a fan of hypocrisy.

“This place is pretty and all,” Phichit says, “but I wouldn’t want to live here.”

“Too slow-paced?” Yuuri asks as the doors slide open.

“Yeah,” Phichit takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs happily, “I like my cities big and loud.”

“There’s a sex joke in there somewhere,” Yuuri says with a grin. He takes a sip of his own coffee – the sugar and cream melts on his tongue, the perfect antidote to the unseasonably cold Fall.

“I will dump this coffee on your head,” Phichit threatens. Yuuri just laughs.

 

Inside, Phichit peels off to do some conditioning stretches. One of his hamstrings is a little tight, and he wants to make sure all is well before his Short Program tomorrow. Yuuri tosses his empty coffee cup into the trash, and puts his skates back on. The men’s ice practise time is still ongoing, and he wants to get at least another hour on the rink before tomorrow. Just in case.

The downside to the caffeine is that it makes him a little jittery, a little more prone to shaking his landings. He swears as he hits the ice for the third time.

“Coffee was a bad idea,” Yuuri tells Celestino, as his coach offers him a hot towel.

“Hmn,” Celestino frowns, “was it the caffeine or the nerves that made you flub that one?”

“Definitely caffeine, I think,” Yuuri sighs, “I don’t feel too bad at the moment.” He presses his face into the steaming flannel and sighs happily. It’s a nice contrast to the frigid air blowing off the ice – goose bumps rise on his arms as an automatic physical response. It’s a good feeling.

When Yuuri raises his head from the towel, there is a group of people walking past behind Celestino. It is the Soviet delegation. He recognises their red jackets, the little hammer and sickle embroidered on the sleeves. Plus, they are all speaking to each other in Russian, which a useful identifier. Yuuri flicks his gaze frantically between them all, looking for – there he is.

Seeing Viktor now makes Yuuri feel like he has been unceremoniously jolted back six months. For a moment, he is in Tokyo, drenched in rain, and Viktor is an untouchable idol come into sudden contact. But then reality shifts. Viktor is not so untouchable – or, rather, he is, but he has not always been.

Yuuri stands at the edge of the barrier, pretending to listen to Celestino, but he’s watching Viktor. His hair is longer – he’s slicked it back from his head with gel, but a few strands have escaped to fall over his face. He looks tired. Yuuri is too far away to properly tell, but he thinks there are faint purple smudges under his eyes. But his tracksuit is impeccable, his _body_ is impeccable. _God_ , Yuuri wants him.

The knowing that he can’t have him feels worse than anything.

“Yuuri, are you listening to me?” Celestino snaps his fingers in front of Yuuri’s face. Yuuri snaps his attention back to his irate coach.

“No, sorry Coach,” Yuuri says sheepishly. Celestino rolls his eyes.

“I thought not. This is the first event of the season, Yuuri. It’s important. You need to focus.”

“I know,” Yuuri says. With difficulty, he tries to pull his mind away from Viktor and towards himself. This should be easier than it is – the problem is that Yuuri has always associated with ice with Viktor. He keeps wanting to glance to the left, to see what Viktor is doing, where he is. His crush is pathetic, really. He may as well be sixteen years old again.

“Okay,” Yuuri shakes his head like he’s trying to get water out of his ear, “I can do this. Probably. What do you want me to work on?”

“I would say to work on your triple flip,” Celestino sucks his teeth and glances sideways – probably at Viktor. Yuuri forces himself not to look. He focuses instead on Celestino’s hands – rough and chapped, they are clasping Yuuri’s skate guards. His wrist are resting on the top of the barrier.

“But?” Yuuri prompts.

“But you’re likely to flub it with all these other skaters around – sorry for the honesty, Katsuki, but it’s the truth.”

“You’re right,” Yuuri sighs.

The back of his neck is prickling. He gets the distinct feeling someone is watching him, which just proves Celestino’s point, really. If he can be made to feel a little uncomfortable by the indiscernible feeling of being watched when he is not performing, he’ll never be able to execute his triple flip with other skaters around to see. This is a bit disheartening.

“Work on your step sequence, I think,” Celestino muses, “you can do it dry, but it’ll be good to get a few more runs with the footwork in, no?”

“Mmn,” Yuuri agrees. He pushes back from the barrier and tries to clear his mind. His step sequence is complicated – it needs to be, really, to bank against failing on the technical. The practicality of this is a little discouraging sometimes, too. But step sequences are Yuuri’s speciality. He sometimes thinks that maybe he is a dancer first, and a skater second. Although he loves the ice with all his heart, his body responds better to dance. Skating feels like flying, but dancing is like walking – effortless, and intrinsic. And sometimes, just a little bit tiring.

When he’s gone through it three, four, five times, Celestino calls him back. They move on to a double flip, working in the combination with the Salchow. Throughout the entire last part of his ice time, Yuuri just can’t shake that feeling that someone is watching him. He glances around sometimes, tries to work out who it might be, but he can’t pinpoint the source. He could, of course, be imagining it – probably is, in fact. But still, he’s on edge.

When Celestino lets him off the ice to warm down, he’s grateful. He wants to escape, have a shower, and try and internalise his routines for tomorrow. In the warm down room, he listens to one of the mixtapes Phichit has created for him.

“Yuuri Katsuki’s Gold Mix I,” Yuuri mumbles, as he reads the masking tape label stuck crookedly to the A side. It makes him smile. This is what he is looking at when Viktor walks into the room – for a moment, he does not notice that he is no longer alone. He is fiddling with the Walkman, untangling the wires of his headphones. But then he looks up, and Viktor is there.

He is on the other side of the room, hesitating in the doorway. He’s in his tracksuit, sleeves rolled up above the elbow. His fingers are braced on the doorframe, and Yuuri’s eyes are drawn to them. His knuckles are white. Yuuri looks up and meets Viktor’s eye. His stomach lurches. The feeling reminds Yuuri of the drop on a rollercoaster, assuming that the rollercoaster is called ‘sexual attraction’. Viktor’s hair has fallen completely out of its gel now, and his jacket is unzipped to halfway down his stomach. Yuuri can see his chest rising and falling.

Is this a dream? Viktor opens his mouth, and Yuuri pushes his headphones down his neck, and then suddenly Viktor turns. One hand is still on the door, but his body is angled away. Yuuri hears him speaking quietly in Russian to someone who is in the hallway and out of sight. And then the door swings shut, and he’s gone. The entire moment is over in less than twenty seconds, and Yuuri isn’t one hundred percent sure it even happened at all.

He probably imagined it, probably projected Viktor even looking at him. He probably hadn’t even been about to say anything, except maybe if he could use the room too. Idiot. Yuuri yanks the headphones off his neck angrily, and crams them back onto his head. He wanted so desperately for – what? For Viktor to come running across the room and into his arms? Idiot, idiot, _idiot_. Viktor probably doesn’t even _remember_ him.

Forcing himself to relax in order to warm down his body properly is a challenge. He is keyed up, tense. His heart is racing, and he is having difficulty breathing. Eventually, he resorts to a meditation method taught to him by his grandmother, and his body begins to calm down. It was all just a daydream – he needs to focus on the real world now. The real world is Skate Canada, the real world is his career. Viktor is a rival and a daydream and a one night stand, and he does not belong in Yuuri’s head right now

 

***

 

The next day is the Short Program. Yuuri wakes too early. When he nudges back the curtain to examine the sky, there is not a trace of light. But dawn is not far off, all the same. He’s too antsy to stay in bed. Tugging his tracksuit on over his shoulders, he goes in search of an early breakfast. Maybe the dining hall will be open this early, to accommodate for the hungry athletes who are all staying here. Yuuri considers going to get Phichit, but then decides against it.

Phichit likes his beauty sleep. Yuuri shouldn’t disturb him – not if he likes his limbs intact. The hotel is mostly still – a few of the rooms Yuuri walks past on the way to the elevator have televisions playing quietly inside, but under most doors the lights are off. The elevator is slow to arrive, and the lobby is quiet. The man at the desk tells Yuuri that the breakfast bar is half-open – there is nothing hot yet, but cereal, toast and fruit is there if he wants it.

The dining room is not empty. The red-haired Soviet skater whom Yuuri vaguely remembers from the Worlds banquet in March is sitting with her feet up on the table, munching on an apple and reading a book. Yuuri glances sideways as he passes. He can’t see the title, but the picture is a super-saturated drawing of a strong-armed man and a woman in less than half a dress.

The Soviet skater sees him looking, and tips the cover of the book up so he can see better. Yuuri, caught out, glances away quickly – but not before he notices that the title is in English. He scurries over to the breakfast bar and gets himself a small bowl of cornflakes with sliced banana and orange pieces, with a little bit of yogurt poured on top. He makes a beeline for the opposite side of the room.

“Hey,” the other occupant of the room calls. Yuuri freezes.

“You can sit with me,” she says, and kicks a chair out. Yuuri wonders if it would be rude to ignore her – but yes. Yes, it would be. Feeling sheepish, he slinks over to her and sits down in the proffered chair. Her hands are folded on top of the book, and she watches him with a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She is probably a few years younger than Yuuri – she has a pretty round face and cupids-bow lips. Yuuri just wishes he could remember her _name_.

“You’re Yuuri, yes?” she asks, after a long moment in which Yuuri pretends not to stare at her. She has a very thick Russian accent – thicker than Viktor’s. Yuuri wonders where she is from – not that he would have any idea of the geographic location of anywhere in Russia, even if she were to for some reason tell him.

“Um,” Yuuri quickly crunches his mouthful of mushy banana, “yeah.”

“Hmn,” she drums the fingers of her right hand against the cover of her book, “do you know my name?”

“Uhh…”

“It’s okay,” she smiles, “I am Mila.”

She holds her hand out. Yuuri drops his spoon and shakes it awkwardly. She’s grinning slyly at him like she knows all of his secrets – which, to be fair, she may well do. Yuuri remembers that she had been present right when he had dropped the champagne at the banquet. A niggling voice in the back of his head tells him that he probably shouldn’t trust her.

“Nice to meet you,” Yuuri says politely. She nods, and keeps staring. Awkwardly, he goes back to eating his cereal. After a moment, she speaks again.

“You wondered about my tastes in literature,” she says – not like it’s question, but like it’s a fact. Which it is.

“Uh, well,” Yuuri shrugs, “I, um…”

“It’s okay,” Mila laughs. She turns the book over so he can read the back, “it’s just stupid shit, yes? But it’s stupid shit I can’t buy in Russia, so I like to get them when I am abroad.”

“Fair enough,” Yuuri says. It figures that Harlequin doesn’t export to the USSR.

“What, you don’t like to read this?” Mila asks.

“Huh?” It takes a moment for Yuuri to realise she’s joking. She snickers.

“Not really, no,” Yuuri says delicately, “it’s not really my taste.”

“No?” Mila muses, “shame. They’re very…entertaining.”

Dear God, _please_ let her not be flirting with him. He doesn’t know how to respond to romantic advances from beautiful Russian people.

“Um, are they?”

To his surprise, Mila bursts out laughing – she snorts as she giggles. Yuuri, bemused, just watches her as his yogurt-cereal drips off his spoon.

“Yes, actually,” she says through her laughter, “but I don’t think they would be, ah, _your_ thing?”

His thi – ah. Ah, yes, well. She had seen him and Viktor, seen them leave together. Figures she would know. He wonders for a moment if she thinks less of him because of it, thinks, maybe, that… he clears his throat.

“You remember?” he asks.

“Oh, mmn, I remember! I said to Vitya that I thought you were intimidated by me!” she tips her head to the side and scrunches up her nose, “He was worried I would scare you off, I think.”

Yuuri has no idea who Vitya is, but they are not wrong – he is more than a little intimidated by her. Probably because she looks like the kind of woman who could bench press him without smudging her makeup. He tells her this, and she laughs long and loud.

“I could!” she says, “you know I can lift Yura over my head? You are a little bigger than him, but I’m sure I could do it!”

“Who are all these people?” Yuuri asks, bemused.  
“Who? Oh – Vitya and Yura?”

“Yeah,”

“Vitya is what we call Viktor,” Mila tells him, “and Yura is another skater from Leningrad. Or, I think he’s actually from Moscow? You probably haven’t met him, he still skates in the junior division.”

“Right,” Yuuri says slowly. He doesn’t have the faintest idea how the Russian – nicknaming? – system works, but he guesses that this confirms that Mila and Viktor are pretty close.

Mila glances away from him into the middle distance. She looks pensive, as though she’s chewing over something she wants to say. Evidently, she decides to spill, because she flicks her gaze back to Yuuri with a grin.

“He asked me about you, you know,” Mila says.

“He – what?”

“Vitya. He asked me about you – as if I would know anything about you!”

Yuuri blinks, and blinks.

“He – he talked about me?”

And what is going _on_? How is he here right now, dawn presumably on the horizon, eating cereal and talking to a teenage Soviet skater about…about what? What _are_ they talking about?

“Oh, he asked me if you liked him – well no actually, I _told_ him that you liked him, but he didn’t seem to believe me. This is okay though, because I know I’m right!” Mila winks at him. Yuuri just _sits_ there – he doesn’t even know how to respond.

Mila glances at the watch on her right wrist, and then starts to gather her things. She smiles as she tucks her book into a satchel that has been sitting on the floor at her feet. Yuuri, flabbergasted, tries to keep up.

“What – when – what…”

“Oh, you know,” Mila says. She is standing now, and smiling down at him. She points a finger at him, “don’t break his heart, please!”

“Break hi – but he – _what_?” But like a whirlwind, Mila is gone – she looks over her shoulder in the doorway and waves cheekily at him, before disappearing through the swing doors.

“How can I break his heart?” Yuuri asks the empty room, “I haven’t seen him since March!”

But no one is around to hear him. He feels a little as though he has just been hit over the head with a bag of bricks. But at the same time – at the same time, he is wary. He barely knows this Russian skater, but she _is_ Soviet. Evidently, she’s friends with Viktor, but maybe she has some kind of agenda? And despite his crush, despite his mooning over one damn night for the last six months, he just can’t believe that maybe Viktor has thought about him too. Even though he wants desperately to accept it, it seems too much like a fool’s errand.

 

***

 

The rink in London is functional at best. There is no fancy décor or opulence – it’s simple and industrial. But it’s large and fully equipped, with a large enough stands section to accommodate a relatively sizeable audience. It’s probably not big enough to cater for a big competition like World’s, but for invitationals, it’s perfect. Even though it’s very grey and utilitarian, Yuuri likes it. It’s easy to focus here.

His short program goes well. This is the first time he’s performed his new routine in competition. He nearly throws up with nerves beforehand, but as soon as he’s on the ice all of his anxieties melt away. It’s only him, and the ice. It’s not a perfect skate, but it’s good. Better than any from his last season already. If he keeps this up, times himself to peak for Worlds, he could do very well this season. He is cautiously optimistic. Celestino is far more enthusiastic.

“Brilliant start, Yuuri,” he says. His hand is on Yuuri’s shoulder as they check the scores. Yuuri is clutching a water bottle to his chest, coming down from the exertion. His heart rate is still surging, but he feels good. Well worked-out and happy. Phichit also does well – he beats Yuuri by a hair’s breadth, and Yuuri is proud of him. He wants to beat Phichit, of course – but if he _were_ going to lose to anyone, he’d rather it be Phichit than anyone else.

The next day, Yuuri and Phichit head to the rink early for the men’s training session, then hang out to watch the women practising. The women’s competitions are in the afternoon, and Yuuri and Phichit are going to stay and watch them. Phichit excuses himself at one point to go and talk to some of his other friends. Yuuri waves him off good-naturedly and relaxes. He’s standing at the edge of the rink, watching the female skaters moving across the ice. His attention is caught when a large group of skaters arrive. Sara Crispino waves at him as she walks past, and looks as if she wants to stop and chat, but her brother is tugging on her arm, talking in rapid-fire Italian. She nods seriously at him, and then glances out across the ice with a determined look. She’s a good skater – Yuuri is looking forward to watching her performance.

Right behind them come Mila and Viktor. Their coach is just in front of them, talking on a satellite phone. Mila is dressed in her Team USSR tracksuit, and talking a mile a minute. Her eyes catch Yuuri’s and she smiles. Yuuri smiles back, and then glances at Viktor. He remembers what Mila said, and wonders if, maybe…

“Hey,” he says as they pass – to Mila? To Viktor?

“Hey Yuuri,” Mila says, with a grin and a friendly wink. Yuuri watches Viktor. His eyes slide right past Yuuri like he isn’t even there. His teeth are clenched, and a muscle jumps in jaw. He looks straight out onto the ice, and then starts speaking in Russian to Mila. Mila’s eyes flick briefly to Yuuri as they pass. She doesn’t say anything more to him, just nods, and says something to Viktor. He smiles a bitter little half-smile in response to whatever it is she has said, and shakes his head.

Yuuri, too, looks out at the ice, and pretends like this is fine. The signals here are so mixed they’re probably going to cause a train crash. He wishes he could just get over it and move on – no. He _can_ , God damn it. Yuuri pushes his hair off his face and stands up straight. If he’s going to walk away, he’s going to look damn good doing it. So what if his cheeks are burning? Neither Mila or Viktor can see his face, because he’s walking. He has no destination in mind – maybe he can just go to the bathroom or something. Yeah. Sure.

Halfway down the hallway he runs into a JSF skater he sort of knows, who pulls him into a conversation about what it’s like skating in the US. Yuuri ends up offering her College advice, and then he’s waylaid by JJ who wants to talk about God knows what, and by that point he really does need to go to the bathroom. When he returns to the side of the rink, both Mila and Viktor have gone. He hesitates on the edge of the mat for a moment to probe his feelings.

He realises that really, he just feels relieved… which is not the emotional response he expected, but it’s there all the same. This is a confusing mess, and maybe it’s a good thing that Viktor blanked him. Maybe it’s a good thing that he was able to walk away Maybe this weird emotional six months are one step closer to being over.

Yuuri rests his wrists on the edge of the rink and watches the skaters practising. Mila has migrated onto the ice – she is doing loops, weaving in between the other female skaters. Sara appears to be having a heated argument with her brother. But what else is new?

He moves his left leg forward and sits down slightly into a stretch. Even though he won’t be on the ice for a good two hours yet, it always feels nice to just stretch out his body. There’s something especially pleasant about feeling the stretch in his glutes. He swaps legs and lets out a little moan.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Yuuri glances to his left, startled. Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland has at some point turned up out of nowhere, and is now languishing beside him with one elbow up on the barrier. He’s grown his hair out since last season – it now frames his face in fluffy artificially blonde curls. He’s wearing a white turtleneck tucked into bright red pants. He is something of a giant patriotic walking eyesore.

“Hey, Chris,” Yuuri says as he swaps legs again, “what’s up?”

“Oh, you know,” Chris shrugs a shoulder, “just admiring the view.”

“I assume you don’t mean them,” Yuuri says dryly. He tilts a head towards the ice, and Chris laughs.

“No – although I appreciate their beauty. And they have a lot of skill.”

“That they do,” Yuuri agrees. He glances to the ice again – one of the Team USA skaters from Boston, a girl named Melinda, makes eye contact with him and waves. He raises a hand in greeting. Chris keeps his eyes on him evaluatively.

“What?” Yuuri asks. He feels a little self-conscious, pinned beneath Chris’ stare like this.

“I notice that you’ve met Mila,” he says. Yuuri sighs.

“You saw that, huh?”

“I did,”

“It was embarrassing,” Yuuri admits. Chris tilts his head.

“Why?”

“Oh,” Yuuri pushes his glasses further up his nose, “you know. I love it when I say hi to people and they don’t even look at me.”

“You shouldn’t blame Viktor,” Chris says. He sounds serious now, and the shift in tone makes Yuuri curious.

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Did you see who was with them?” Chris asks.

“What – their coach?”

“Mmn,” Chris shakes his head and sucks his teeth, thoughtful, “and other officials.”

“You – you were at the banquet, right?” Yuuri asks awkwardly. He isn’t sure where this is going – really isn’t totally sure what’s going on at all.

“Ah,” Chris says, and grins, “I didn’t _see_ , but Viktor told me about it.”

“He – he told you –” Yuuri feels his face heat up. Having _done_ it is bad enough, but he would probably prefer it if Chris didn’t know the details. He looks away at the ice and wills the colour in his cheeks to go down. Chris giggles.

“Not everything, Yuuri, don’t worry. Only a little – but enough that I know.”

“Cool, great,” Yuuri mumbles, “Ice skating’s biggest secret now, huh?”

“It is, really,” Chris says – again, his tone has shifted back to the serious. Yuuri glances at him. He looks troubled – his eyebrows have descended low over his eyes, and his mouth is sucked in to a moue.

“How closely are you following the news that comes out of the Communist Bloc?” he asks.

“Ah, I don’t really keep up with politics. Phichit kinda hates me for it, but y’know,” Yuuri shrugs a shoulder. Chris hums at him, one eyebrow raised. Yuuri feels like a bug under a microscope. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

“What?” he snaps, with a little more fire than usual. He immediately feels bad about it, because Chris blinks and rears back slightly. But then he laughs unexpectedly.

“I apologise,” he says, “I am interrogating you. I do understand – not everyone has time to be reading the news every day, combing for details. You’re an athlete and a University student. I should not have presumed that you would prioritise the news.” This does very little to make Yuuri feel better. Chris seems to realise this, because he sighs.

“Ah, I’m not always very good at trying to say what I mean,” he says, “I don’t mean to attack you, Yuuri. I am being genuine – it’s alright.”

Chris wears sincerity well – it suits his sultry face. Yuuri shrugs again.

“S’okay,” he says, “I get what you mean. People have different priorities.”

“Precisely,” when Chris grins, his teeth flash white, “so I didn’t mean to attack you, Yuuri. I’m just saying that there are maybe things you do not know.”

“Wha – Chris, that’s not any better?” Yuuri protests. Chris inadvertently insulting his intelligence has now occurred so many times in one conversation that it’s now more comical than actually hurtful. Chris flicks himself briefly in the forehead with a sigh.

“I apologise,” he says again, “I haven’t spoken much English since last season, and I think my ability to accurately express myself has weakened.”

“Oh, sorry,” Yuuri immediately feels bad, “I forgot that English wasn’t your first language –”

“It’s alright!” Chris laughs. He rolls his sleeves up as he frowns, clearly trying to think of the right way to articulate what he is trying to say. Yuuri gets the idea that Chris is trying to delicately drive at a specific point, trying to say something without explicitly stating it…the problem is, Yuuri has no idea what Chris is driving at.

“What do you study?” Chris asks. It is a very random question.

“Uh, economics. Why?”

“You are…in your third year of study?”

“Ye-es,” Yuuri frowns. Chris hums again.

“I see. Hmn. You know prospect theory?”

“Wow,” Yuuri says, because this is conversation is taking a _very_ bizarre turn, “I – yeah, I do. A little, anyway.”

“So, think of it like this,” Chris says. _Aha_ \- thinks Yuuri. They are at last getting to the point.

“Say you are a skater for a nation that is at war,” Chris continues. He’s still got his elbow on the barrier, and he turns his hand towards himself so that he can examine his nails. His posture is effortlessly casual. Yuuri mimics him – one elbow on the barrier holding his water bottle loosely, other arm hanging by his side. Out on the ice, one of the skaters calls to a teammate.

“How do you choose which risk is greatest? Do you defy your government knowing you will lose everything, or do you carry on as normal, knowing that you will lose yourself?”

Chris looks up at Yuuri, and smiles.

“Uncertainty is always better, no? If a loss is guaranteed?”

“Shit,” Yuuri says, “ _shit_.”

Chris reaches out and pats him on the shoulder.

“Viktor does not yet know which scenario represents the greatest potential for loss, and I can’t make that decision for him,” Chris tips his head to one side and peers at Yuuri with that evaluative eye again, “you know, I don’t know what it is about you. I like you, Yuuri, but you’re not my type. Ah well,” Chris sighs dramatically, “this isn’t about me.”

Yuuri feels…something. Nothing. He doesn’t know how to feel. It’s like Chris has just reached inside his head and flicked a switch, and things that shouldn’t make sense are starting to. God – Yuuri is going to have to tell Phichit that he was right. Phichit will never let him live it down.

“I’ll leave you to your musings,” Chris says with a grin that doesn’t quite ring true. He slaps Yuuri on the shoulder hard enough to make him jump.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” he says, “you need to stay on your toes for your free skate tomorrow, no?”

With a laugh, he saunters off. Yuuri just stands on the mat, clutching his water bottle. He’s staring out at the ice, but he’s not seeing any of the skaters training. Instead he sees Viktor holding his Team USA jacket.

“ _Shit_ ,” Yuuri says, one more time.

 

***

 

He does not win the gold – but neither does Viktor. There is an impossibly narrow margin between the gold and the silver, but in the end JJ pips Viktor for the medal. His home crowd, of course, are ecstatic. Phichit gets the bronze, and Yuuri is incredibly proud. He only gets fifth, but it’s alright. He knows what he did wrong, and he knows how to fix it, and in a few days Skate America will begin, and he’ll have another shot at glory.

Yuuri, sitting in the crowd at the medal ceremony, alternates his gaze between Phichit and Viktor. Sometimes he swears that Viktor is looking at him, but he knows it’s not likely. He is a long way away, and the lights are bright. He looks tired still, and his smile looks a little forced. Phichit, on the other hand, is radiant.

In the press room afterwards, he talks at great length about how even though the medal was won for the USA, it is really a medal for Thailand. Yuuri is called away from loitering in the doorway eavesdropping on the interviews by Celestino, who instructs him to gather his things. They’ll be driving back to Chicago as soon as the exhibitions are done – Celestino wants to get in a few days hard training before Skate America, and there’s no time to wait in Canada another night.

Yuuri gathers his things and packs them away neatly in his bag, which he then slings over his right shoulder. He flicks out the lights as he leaves – force of habit, he muses as he wanders down the hallway. It is empty, cinderblock and painted white, illuminated with fluorescents. It leads into the warm up rooms and from there into the main arena, and Yuuri whistles as he walks.

A door opens suddenly beside him, and someone comes barrelling into the hallway. They are too close for Yuuri to move away, and he walks smack into a very solid form. Whoever he walked into stumbles sideways, raising their arms to steady Yuuri and push him away.

“Sorry, I didn’t see –” Yuuri says.

“Sorry, I wasn’t look –” the other person says. It is Viktor – of course it is. He’s wearing his exhibition costume – a simple suit, bowtie undone around his opened collar – and he is still holding Yuuri at arm’s length. Yuuri swallows. It seems very loud in the sudden silence. He is _very_ aware of Viktor’s hands on his wait, on the smell of his cologne permeating the shared space between them.

“You – you make something of a habit of this, don’t you Yuuri?” Viktor says. He had been smiling, but it’s slowly sliding off his face. His brows are furrowed, lips parted, and it feels to Yuuri as though the world has just slipped slightly off its axis.

Viktor is not directly in front of him – in the collision, he had knocked Yuuri a little sideways. This gives Yuuri a view over Viktor’s shoulder. At the end of the hallway, the door to the warm up rooms is open. A Soviet official with a square jaw and dark hair has stuck his head through – Yuuri recognises him from the entourage that has passed him many times.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. He squirms hard away from Viktor, breaking his grip. He bows slightly towards Viktor, all formal, “it won’t happen again.”

He sees the look that flashes across Viktor’s face – he frowns, and his mouth snaps shut, but then immediately it is like someone has placed a mask over his face. It goes smooth, totally expressionless.

“My fault,” he says mechanically. Yuuri takes another step sideways, just as the Soviet official calls to Viktor. Yuuri is still close enough to see the way that Viktor’s eyes widen, the way he glances towards Yuuri as he spins on his heel and replies. The official is looking suspiciously between them. Yuuri smiles as placidly as he can, and walks away. The Soviet official passes him in the hallways, still saying something to Viktor. He sounds angry. As Yuuri reaches the door, he turns and looks over his shoulder. Viktor is standing with his arms crossed, gesticulating with one hand as he talks. He does not look in Yuuri’s direction, and for that, Yuuri is grateful.

As he makes his way back to Celestino, he realises that his heart is racing, pumping adrenaline through his veins. Whether it’s from Viktor’s touch, or from the sudden inexplicable danger that he perceived, Yuuri doesn’t know. He just knows that he is shaking, that he can’t get the image of Viktor’s face out of his head, that everything is starting to get complicated.

He can leave, he knows. He can get out now, if he tries. Squash his feelings. He told Mari that after this season, if things didn’t work out, he’d let it go. And he still could – it would be hard, so hard, but he could do it. He’d always love the idea of Viktor, or course, but he could still, feasibly, get out now. It would be safer for Viktor, surely – since it looks as though Phichit was right, after all.

But – he needs to know. Viktor’s mixed signals, the things that Mila and Chris have said – the ‘what if’ will hang over him forever. Yuuri pauses in the entrance to the arena, and bites his lower lip. It is chapped; he drags his teeth, nibbles away little bits of skin until he tastes blood. And still, he doesn’t move.  Half of his head is telling him that Viktor doesn’t know, doesn’t care, that the scraps of evidence presented to him are just coincidence.

But – Viktor had remembered his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited (and posted) this chapter whilst inebriated but y'know what, that's just where I am at life rn  
> I'm slightly unsure when I'm going to upload the next chapter because I have A Lot on in life, BUT it is mostly done, so hopefully it shouldn't be terribly long until the next update.  
> Thank you all for your comments and support!! xx


	6. five - st paul

October 27th 1985 – ST PAUL, USA

 

Everything in America looks the same.

He has heard this phenomenon described before – because it _is_ a phenomenon. _Nowhere, USA_ , Viktor thinks as he looks out of the window of the black van that has been designated as their team transport. Every town he has ever passed through here, every main street of every city – totally identical. The same chain stores and neon lights, road signs and street signs and people passing through.

Viktor knows that this is capitalism at its finest. The ideals of the West, condensed here, and here, and here, into the same street repeated over and over. But every time, it makes him catch his breath. Not because of what it _is_ , but because of what it represents. For the first time, he is acutely aware of the fact that he does not miss his home.

The airport is not very far from the hotel where they are staying, even though it is technically in a different city. American cities are strange in the way that they are several in one. They had flown from Toronto to Minneapolis, and from there driven to St Paul without the barest flash of countryside. Viktor is a city person, but he appreciates the country. If there is one thing childhood holidays at his grandparents dacha taught him, it’s how to love the outdoors. But on the whole, he prefers to be where there are more people.

Viktor is startled from his reverie by Yakov. He’s fiddling with the radio, grumbling under his breath. The team interpreter – really only Yakov’s interpreter, since all the skaters speak English to varying degrees of fluency – presses a button, and a bubble of sound bursts through the radio.

“Success at last,” Yakov announces. Glancing around the van, Viktor sees that he is the only one awake. The other skaters are slumped against each other or the windows.

“Awake, Vitya?” Yakov asks, seeing his move in the rear-view mirror, “good. We will be there soon. I think.”

“These cities are so hard to navigate,” Viktor says. Yakov barks a laugh.

“You’re telling me? Every street looks the same!”

“You know,” Viktor says, “it may have been better to get someone who can actually read the street signs to drive?”

Yakov glares at him in the mirror. He sees that Viktor is smiling, and rolls his eyes.

“No cheek from you,” he says, “you don’t even know how to drive!”

“Ah, maybe I should learn,” Viktor stretches out his legs, points his toes. This is an industrial sort of van – for some strange reason, there is plenty of leg-room between the front row and the driver’s seat. More than enough room for Viktor’s long legs, plus his suitcase tucked against the window.

“What possible reason would you have for learning to drive?” Yakov asks.

“Oh, you know,” Viktor shrugs, “maybe I might like to move to Ushkovo. The commute in to the rink would be a bit much to walk.”

“Pft,” Yakov snorts, “the day you move away from Leningrad, Viktor, is the day the world stops turning.”

“Ah, you’re probably right,” Viktor lies, “but still. You never know, hmn?”

He returns his gaze to the window. Outside, they are rolling down a wide boulevard. It is relatively empty of traffic, but there are a few pedestrians out shopping. There are banners hanging from the lampposts. Viktor has to squint towards them. With surprise, he sees that they are advertising Skate America. Some of them just have the name and dates of the event printed in white on red or blue banners, but every few posts along, some have been printed with the faces of American skaters who will be competing.

When he sees one with Yuuri’s face, his stomach jolts. He lets out an involuntary ‘yip’ sound, and then quickly passes it off as clearing his throat. He presses a hand to his stomach, and focuses on trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. He can’t help but think of himself as being more than a little bit pathetic. Mooning over a one night stand, even after all this time. But having met Yuuri again, having seen him _skate_ , Viktor can’t help but think that…

Yakov makes a sudden turn with a bitten off-swear word, as he realises that is he about to drive past the hotel. The jolt of the van as it turns wakes up several people, who press bleary faces to the glass as they pull into the parking lot. It is a big blocky glass and concrete building that takes up a decent chunk of the city block. Georgi whistles when he sees it.

“It’s across the river from the arena,” Yakov says, “not within walking distance, unfortunately.”

Viktor tuts lightly. It’s annoying to not be so close – he, like many other skaters, likes to be able to come and go freely from the hotel to the ice. But still – maybe this way, he’ll see more of the city for once? Although that’s doubtful, with the State Committee for Sports members that dog his every step. Valentina voices the same thought, and Mila sighs.

“Chance would be a fine thing, no?” she says wistfully.

“Don’t forget,” Yakov says sternly, “you are here to skate, and to skate well. No other reason.”

“Yes, Coach,” Mila sighs.

There are only two full days in between the end of Skate Canada and beginnings of Skate America. Not every Soviet skater is invited to both – some have returned home to prepare for upcoming events, other still have arrived in the US separately. Skaters from other countries will be arriving constantly for the next few days. This is the beauty of the season, really. Skaters move around the world in packs – and there is rarely time for someone as highly-ranked as Viktor to go home in between events. Moving from one city to the next, transient. That’s him.

Viktor broods as he unloads first his suitcase and then himself from the van. He used to find constantly drifting lonely – he felt so untethered, being away from home for nearly six months of the year. When did it become the other way around?

 

***

 

Viktor is slow to wake on the morning that the competition is set to begin. His alarm is beeping incessantly, informing him that it is 6:30am. He feels like he’s stuck in the mud during Rasputitsa, being pulled out very slowly and painfully. He is sluggish as he rolls over and stares at the clock. One arm emerges from the blankets and hits the snooze button – but he does not go back to sleep. He lies there curled in on his side, staring at the clock as it ticks over.

Some functional part of his brain informs him that he should be up and showering, getting his things together, mentally preparing for the competition today. But he cannot bring himself to do it. He feels inexplicably – not sad, but something close to it. The alarm goes off again. This time, Viktor switches it off. Even doing that feels like a herculean effort.

He feels like nothing. The USA could launch nuclear weapons, and Viktor would just lie here. He would just die here. Viktor remembers an incident that occurred when he was 20. He had returned home from the rink – he doesn’t even remember what the day had been like, or what his feelings had been. All he remembers is closing the door to his flat and hovering on the threshold before slowly crumpling to the floor. He had lain there in the gathering darkness, incapable of getting up, incapable of _feeling_ , for – God, how long? Hours. He had wanted to get up, even just to go to bed, but anything surplus to existence had been too much.

This is what he feels like now. There is a weight in his heart which he has carried with him for a long time now, and it is getting heavier and heavier.

At what point does the catatonia outweigh the necessity of movement? Viktor’s brain is sluggish as he ponders this question, and stares as the clock ticks down. He needs to leave. He needs to leave. Two hours have passed, and he needs to leave. At 8:39, there is a knock at the door. Viktor doesn’t have the energy to respond.

“Shit me,” the person outside the door says – funny French dialect, loud voice. It is Chris. “Are you dead?”

Yes, Viktor wants to say. The most he can manage is a sigh.

“I know you’re in here,” Chris yells through the door, and hammers hard, “get up and let me in!”

For another long minute, Viktor still doesn’t move. But Chris keeps knocking, and it’s getting more and more irritating, and finally Viktor rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door. When he finally flings it open, Chris is taken by surprise. He is caught in mid-knock, and his fist goes flying forwards to land lightly on Viktor’s chest.

“Ow,” Viktor says, although it doesn’t hurt.

“Ooh, hel- _lo_ ,” Chris says. He grins, but when Viktor can’t even manage a weak smile in response, he frowns.

“ _Are_ you dead?” Chris asks.

“Only inside my head,” Viktor says. It comes out sounding a little more morbid than he intends. Chris just makes a little ‘huh’ sound as he shoulders his way past Viktor and into the hotel room.

“Please shower,” he says as he squeezes by. He makes himself comfortable on Viktor’s messy bed, thumbing through the novel that Viktor has left on his bedside table. It’s in Russian, so Chris can’t understand a word, but he seems to be having fun trying to pronounce the words. Viktor watches him for a moment. His lips are moving as he sounds out the words.

“I’m going to start trying to say them out loud in a minute,” Chris warns without looking up.

“God save me,” Viktor says, and goes into the bathroom.

Now that he is up and moving, things feel a tiny bit easier. He can focus now on what he has to do. Slowly, the gears in his brain tick over to ‘skate’ mode. He finds himself humming his short program song as he washes. The high-functioning part of his brain is finally taking over.

When he emerges, clean and dressed in his costume underneath his tracksuit, Chris has migrated to the desk. He is now reading the Gideon bible from the bedside cabinet with a frown on his face.

“I am ready,” Viktor announces.

“To get your ass kicked?”

“Ha. You wish.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chris says. He tosses the bible aside (Viktor watches as it slides across the floor and underneath the bed) and gets to his feet. Viktor grabs his skate bag, and they head down together. In the spacious, well-lit foyer there is a gathering of Soviet skaters being corralled next to the giant potted ferns by team of handlers. An irate Yakov is standing off to the side. He starts barking as soon as the elevator doors slide open, asking Viktor what he has been doing, why he is late. Chris claps Viktor on the shoulder with a snigger as he wanders over to his own coach.

“What were you doing with _him_?” Yakov asks, glaring suspiciously at Chris’ retreating back. Viktor sighs.

“He came to wake me up,” he answers truthfully, “you know I like to sleep all the way up to a competition, Coach.”

“Tcha,” Yakov says. He turns his back on Viktor in irritation.

Viktor comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his coach’s shoulders. Yakov, who is used to this, shakes himself like a soggy dog, and detaches Viktor.

“Vitya,” he reprimands – but there is no real irritation in his voice. Viktor knows this, and grins. It is not _quite_ a genuine smile, but it is the closest approximation that he can manage in his current state.  

 

They all pile into the van, and travel to the rink together. Viktor does not have a window seat this time – he is squished into the back between Mila and Valentina, and he really rather wishes he were elsewhere. It is hard to focus on his upcoming skate when the girls are gossiping across him. Georgi is in the passenger seat, and makes eye contact with him in the rear-view mirror. They exchange a long-suffering glance.

At the rink, they head straight to the warm up rooms. Viktor finds himself a nice corner, and unpacks his foam roller. It is patterned with fleur de lis, and he is fond of it. It was a gift from Klaudia a few years go – she had said at the time that she thought it would appeal to his illusions of grandeur. She had, as usual, been right.

He zones out, mostly focusing on his body, concentrating on his muscles. He is aware, too, of the sounds of the room, the atmosphere. The walls are painted olive green, and there are large windows set just below the ceiling which let in a lot of natural light. It’s one of the better warm up rooms he’s used – certainly better than the utilitarian 1960’s concrete ones in all the rinks in the USSR.

There is a steady flow of skaters leaving and entering, as well as coaches and support teams. Yakov is in the corner with Georgi, overseeing his routine. Every now and again he comes over and scrutinises Viktor with a critical eye, but doesn’t have a lot to say. After about half an hour, Viktor hears Chris’ voice and looks up. He is nearly done now, just working on a few conditioning stretches before his group head to the ice for warm up.

Chris, to his surprise, is not talking with any of the Swiss of European entourage. He is standing near the wall, holding his ankle behind him, talking seriously with Yuuri, who has his forearms pressed against the wall as he stretches out his legs. For a moment, Viktor’s gaze is caught by Yuuri’s body. He has to try very hard to pull his gaze away. What are he and Chris talking about? He’d dying to know – but he’s envious, too. His friendship with Chris is one thing, allowed because Switzerland is not the United States. He wishes he could talk to Yuuri that easily – and more.

Group One is announced to head to the arena, and Viktor packs up his things. Chris is in Group One too, but he shows little sign of packing up his things. Viktor moves quickly, shoving things into his bag at random. Maybe he can go up to Chris, collect him to head to the arena…?

Viktor is only halfway across the room when Chris moves. He claps Yuuri on the shoulder, and bends down to sling his bag over his shoulder. He glances over his shoulder, sees Viktor, and grins. Viktor can _see_ his shoulders move up as he huffs a laugh. He turns and comes towards Viktor, slinging an arm over his shoulder.

They walk past Yuuri like this, Chris hanging off of Viktor. As they pass through the door, Viktor glances to the side. Yuuri is slumped with his hip against the wall, watching them.

This time, when he meets Viktor’s eyes, he does not look away.

 

Later, just before Viktor is about to begin his short program, Chris walks past on his way to the kiss and cry.

“Oh, I forgot to say, earlier,” Chris say over his shoulder, speaking French as usual. Yakov frowns between them, irritated at his lack of understanding.

 “I have a message I was told to pass on to you,” Chris continues, “Yuuri says good luck!”

“Yuuri says – Yuuri – uh?” Viktor is, apparently, incapable of forming words.

“You know who I mean,” Chris says with a wink. Viktor is left staring after him, feeling…something. Like popping the cork on a champagne bottle, something fizzes through his stomach as he turns his head to glance around the room. On the other side of the room, Yuuri has exited the warm up room and is now talking to his friend – Phichit? – with his back turned. Yuuri – shit. _Shit_.

Viktor turns away before he is caught staring and raises his hand to his mouth, idly tracing the outline of his lips as he thinks. He remembers the way Yuuri had looked when he had bumped into the hallway in Canada, the way he had _smiled_ for that half-heartbeat before he had moved away. He remembers, not an hour ago, the way Yuuri had met his gaze…No. Viktor needs to _focus_. He pushes Yuuri out of his head, focuses on what he has to do as he turns back to an irate Yakov. But the smile lingers on his face, even as he skates out onto the ice.

 

His performance is damn near perfect, of course – a few errors, a few minor mistakes in his step sequence which some people wouldn’t even notice. Viktor notices them of course, in the mechanical way that he notices everything on this ice. Everything is slower, clearer – he has room to breathe. But then it is over, and his heart is roaring in his ears and his hands are shaking as the spent adrenaline from the build-up crashes through his system, and his face is flushed and every breath pulls against his lungs.

Yakov hands him his skate guards as he steps off the ice, and then a bottle of water with electrolytes added. It tastes disgusting, and it’s lukewarm, but Viktor sips it obediently as they walk to the kiss and cry. Yakov says nothing. Viktor’s legs are shaking.

“Your sit spin was sloppy,” Yakov grunt eventually, “too much on the inside edge.”

“I know.”

“And your right leg isn’t straight enough for the Y spin. Plus, you are overcompensating. You got too used to relying on your left side during the training season when your right leg got back up to strength again. It shows. You need to work on that.”

“I know,” Viktor says again. He hadn’t noticed the overcompensation – it is the tiniest detail that only Yakov would ever notice. But he notices everything, always. That is why his skaters are the best.

Viktor lingers for a time before heading to the cool down rooms. He wants to enjoy the feel of the crowd a little more, feel the energy of all these people. And it’s nice to hear English being spoken. There are many people speaking far too loudly and far too fast for him to be able to understand most of what the people around him are saying, but the roar of crowd has a different sound to crowds in Russia, or even other countries where has competed, such as Sweden, or Japan.

As he watches a Swiss skater – not Chris – take to the ice, Viktor tries to hear parts of what people are saying.

“ _And_ she’d had too much –”

“David was –”

“He has such _style_!”

“I love him!” This last is from a middle aged woman in a chocolate brown power suit, who is clutching a swiss flag to her chest. Viktor imagines what his response to her statement would be – imagines a world where he is allowed to respond to her statement.

Me too, he would say, but he’s not a very good dancer. See the way his arms are too stiff when they should be soft, or too floppy when they should be strong? See the lack of expression on his face?

But of course, he cannot respond. Instead, he takes another sip of his water, and pushes his way through the curtains that lead away from the arena.

In the hallway, various skaters from Group Three are making their way to the arena proper. There is an American boy – is his name Leo? – who double takes when he sees Viktor, and then smiles, and Viktor smiles back automatically, is still smiling when he turns his head and sees Yuuri.

He has his head down, headphones over his ears. He’s frowning at the floor, his fingers drumming against his thighs. As Viktor’s gaze in drawn to him, his wrist twitches forward as if he is going to start drawing in the air – but then he drops his wrist, and looks up.

It is a strange moment. It is as if, for a second, time pauses. A deep breath taken on a winters morning, shocking right down to Viktor’s soul. He is still half smiling, Yuuri’s hands are still twitching – and then Yuuri looks down at his feet. There is no finesse to it, no casual sliding glance, no ‘I didn’t even notice you at all’.

Yuuri turns his head very deliberately and stares at his shoes. Viktor can see the curve of his cheek (it is flushed, pale pink which shows up against his pale skin), the corner of his mouth where his lip is curled underneath biting teeth. Viktor remembers that cheek, that lip, those teeth against his skin. But Yuuri doesn’t look at him again, just keeps walking with his eyes averted and the flush spreading across his face and neck.

Viktor forces himself to keep walking, but he cannot keep the smile on his face. God – he had never considered it before. What if Yuuri doesn’t remember? What if Yuuri is embarrassed about him, or -? But no, wait – both Chris and Mila have told him that they have spoken with Yuuri, that Yuuri remembers. He is just being paranoid.

But all the same. The sting of rejection cuts like a blade into his ribs. He remembers what it feels like to break, and just for a moment he can’t quite catch his breath.

The adrenaline of his skate has long since worn off. All he feels now is tired. He wants to crawl into bed, lie there and stare at the ceiling for hours and hours, until the sun has gone down and the stars are shining. He just wants…he just wants…

The only way to get through the day, Viktor has learned, is to just keep going. So he keeps walking, enters the cool down room, flicks out a mat. As he stretches, he thinks about what he would say if he could talk to Klaudia right now. What advice would she give him?

He remembers the last time he saw her. The first of the snow had begun to fall in the east. She was stronger, fatter. Looked younger than Viktor had seen her in years. Her hair was shorter – cut to frame her face instead of brushing her narrow shoulders.

‘I wish I wasn’t back in this fucking place,’ she had said when they reunited, meaning Leningrad. Viktor knows how she feels.

And if she was here now, she would tell him not to think about it. She would say that love is a distraction, and it ruins your life _. But Klava_ , he would say if he could, _you love me, and have I ruined your life?_

 _Yes_ , she would reply, and then either punch him in the shoulder or kiss him on the cheek.

He doesn’t believe that love ruins your life, but the Klaudia in his head is correct. It is a distraction. He needs to focus on skating, and skating alone.

 

***

 

It is easier said than done, to push Yuuri out of his head altogether. He leaves the rink once the last of the scores for the day have been announced – piles into the van with the other skaters, listens to Georgi going on and on about his latest girlfriend, stares out the window throughout the brief drive. They are travelling in convoy with two other teams. The Canadian one is behind them, but Viktor doesn’t know who is travelling in front. Behind the Canadian delegations van is a car full of Soviet officials.

Even in another country, they are kept on short leashes.

When they get back to the hotel, Viktor paces around his hotel room. He knows that if he were to go to bed now, he would say there until morning. He wants to not be alone, but he can’t reach out and ask for attention. None of the people here know him well enough – the other Soviet skaters would be very surprised if an agitated Viktor Nikiforov turned up at their door for no reason other than the desire not to be alone.

It is lonely being at the top. The ache has long since settled in his bones, and Viktor doesn’t know how to get it out.

There is a knock on the door. Viktor opens it. It is Chris.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he says.

“Yes,” Viktor says immediately, relief evident. He grabs his jacket and his keys from the table on which he had deposited them, and follows his friend down the hallway. There is no around, no one to see them as they walk across the lobby and out into the street. Viktor wonders if there should be.

“Am I paranoid?” he asks Chris, who stares at him.

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” he says.

“It surprises me, every time I’m able to just...wander freely in other countries,” Viktor admits. They’re around the corner now, on a busy road. Dusk is falling, the lights of the city are beginning to glow.

“They’re not God, Viktor,” Chris says, “they don’t know everything.”

“I know,” Viktor says, “but we were raised to think that they did.”

Chris doesn’t reply. He just scrunches his mouth and looks down at his feet. A few fallen leaves drift past.

“Do you want food?” Chris asks, “I heard there’s a good place somewhere down here.”

“Sure,” Viktor agrees. They walk on in silence.

Viktor has always valued Chris for his total unflappability. He has never let Viktor or his emotional baggage phase him. He simply _is_. And, Viktor knows, he always _will_ be. Empires may rise and fall, but Chris will always determinedly be there. Being fiercely loyal to his friends is what he does best – except for skating, of course.

They find a little restaurant down a side-street, drawn in by the sound of music playing over outdoor speakers. It is small, and crowded – evidently, it is a popular place with the locals. It feels good to be out – even if their dinner choices are somewhat limited. They get several salads to eat between them, and a side of lean steak each. Viktor hesitates for a moment over the wine – but he has long since learned the perfect balance between drunk enough to sleep easily, and drunk enough to create a hangover the next day. He knows his body well, after all.

When their wine arrives, Chris sniffs it appreciatively.

“A good vintage,” he says.

“You haven’t even tasted it yet!”

“Aha,” Chris taps his nose, “but I don’t _need_ to. I know these things!”

“Is it because you’re from the French part of Switzerland?’ Viktor asks dryly. Chris just winks, and takes a sip. Viktor takes one too – it is a good vintage. A rich, sweet flavour without that awful tang that cheap wine leaves on the palate.

“So,” Viktor asks his friend, “how was your off season?”

“Dismal,” Chris says, “without skating to focus on everything seems so depressing.”

“How so?”

“It just gets under my skin, you know?”

“Do elaborate,” Viktor sets down his wineglass. Chris shrugs.

“When the season is on, it’s consuming,” he says, “it defines us. But in the off-season, especially when training is light, it’s much harder to ignore the world.”

“I know what you mean,” Viktor says. He leans back in his chair and glances around the restaurant. All around them, packed in close, people are eating, talking, laughing. Almost all of them are speaking in English, although there is one family nearby who are speaking what Viktor _thinks_ is Hebrew, but they’re slightly too far away for him to be able to tell for sure.

“Do you ever feel like –” Viktor starts to say, and then stops. He had been about to say; _do you ever feel like the world is just so much better out here?_ But then he realises that of course Chris doesn’t ever feel the way Viktor feels. He was born and raised in this other world. He has the freedom to go where he likes, when he likes, to be with who he wants, when he wants. Viktor does not.

“Feel like what?’ Chris asks.

“Nothing,” Viktor says, and Chris doesn’t push it. Instead, he takes another gulp of wine and sighs.

“You know,” he says, “I wish this arms race would end.”

“Ha,” Viktor snorts, “that’s not likely.”

“I know,” Chris rolls his eyes, “France has been testing in the Pacific. Nobody is particularly happy about it.”

“France doesn’t have nearly enough strength to compete with anyone,” Viktor says. Chris snorts.

“I know _that_. Although I doubt the relative unimportance of France’s nuclear stockpile impacts other people’s feelings overmuch, seeing as all it takes is one strike.”

“I know – believe me, I know,” Viktor says. Their food arrives then – the waitress asks where they are from. Chris says Switzerland, with a characteristic wink and grin. She blushes and laughs, and doesn’t ask Viktor – evidently, she assumes that he too is from Switzerland. Viktor isn’t going to correct her. When she leaves, Chris spears a tomato on the end of his fork and keeps talking.

“Anyway, it wasn’t so much the powers I was talking about,” he says, “there have been a lot of protests down there, you know. Against the tests. Funnily enough the citizens of that part of the world don’t like having nuclear bombs tested in their backyard.”

“Fair enough,” Viktor mumbles, “I don’t like it much, either.”

“You live in _Leningrad_ , Viktor.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Viktor rolls his eyes, “but we don’t have overseas territories to dump ours on. We have to test on our own land.”

“But that’s the _point_!’ Chris exclaims, “I just don’t think anyone should have to test at all! When is this whole debacle going to _end_?”

“When we’re all dead, I suppose,” Viktor says darkly. This is not really the question he wants to be having. He chews a piece of steak resolutely, hoping that it will keep his mouth busy so he doesn’t have to reply to Chris.

“I’m just saying,” Chris sighs, “it would be easier for everyone involved if people would just, you know. Stop developing nuclear weapons.”

“Never going to happen,” Viktor says flatly, and Chris sighs. He then takes a bite of his own steak, and Viktor uses to opportunity to change the subject.

“How is your family?” he asks. Chris gulps down his mouthful, and starts talking in earnest about his brother’s new dog, and his partner’s nice apartment, and his mother’s new shares in Coca-Cola, and it all seems so marvellous and foreign. Viktor loves hearing Chris speak about his family, his life. There is so much love and happiness there. Viktor isn’t _jealous_ of Chris, per se. He just wishes he had a family like that. The kind that regularly have dinners together – or, hell, the kind that regularly _talk_.

“How’s your mother?” Chris asks eventually. Viktor shrugs.

“She’s alright,” he says, the last I heard from her she was in Tbilisi. She says the weather is nice there.”

“Good for her,” Chris says, somewhat darkly. He is permanently disapproving of Viktor’s mother on his behalf – Viktor doesn’t care much either way. But sometimes, he wishes that he did.

 

***

 

The next day is the final day of the competition. Viktor wakes with a lump in his throat that has nothing to do with the wine. In the morning is the compulsory figures element – Viktor hates it, has always hated it, because there’s no _creativity_. It’s repetitive, and precise, and there is no room for the individualism that so characterises the rest of the competition pieces. There is no way to generate surprise. However, they are worth 30% of the overall score, so Viktor has practised and practised well. His average score is 5.6 – this is perfectly acceptable.

“Could be better,” Yakov grunts.

“I agree,” Viktor says.

He should be getting ready for the free skate, but instead he finds himself drifting to the stands. Yuuri is in the next group of skaters to be performing the compulsory figures, and Viktor wants to watch him. For the last two competitions, he has gone out of his way to watch Yuuri. He feels bad for not having noticed him the previous season, for having been so focused on himself and his own performances that he did not even recognise the foreign skater. And also – he just likes to watch.

They have been assigned the double three, the paragraph bracket loop, and the serpentine. All difficult.

Yuuri executes them beautifully. His face is so calm. Viktor sits on the front row of the section reserves for skaters, and folds his hands underneath his chin, leaning forward against the short barrier as if it will get him closer to the ice. He can’t see the tracings very well on the patch from this far back, so he just watches Yuuri instead. Watches the way his body moves – so graceful. Viktor was a dancer himself, and knows a kindred spirit when he sees one. Even moving in silence without music, Yuuri’s body is fluid, his position precise.

Viktor taps his fingers against his mouth as he watches. He tries to see errors in Yuuri’s figures, but there don’t appear to be any – he gets straight 6.0’s. Viktor is not the best at mathematics, but he has paper and pencil in the pocket of his tracksuit, where he has been keeping note of scores. As it currently stands, Yuuri is doing as well as he is. There are of course other skaters who are at the same level, as only 50% of the scores have been made up, and the compulsory figures are not over.

The competitive streak in him is strong – he wants to win, wants it badly, like he always does. But he wants the best for Yuuri, too. As Viktor gets up, and goes to get ready for the free skate, which will be starting in a few hours, he wonders whether Yuuri will make the podium – and sincerely hopes that he does.

 

***

 

 

Late that afternoon, when Viktor steps onto the podium to accept his gold, it is to rapturous applause. Even here, even in America, people are screaming his name. He smiles and waves, holding his medal with his left hand – another gold. These people do not begrudge him his victory – he is untouchable, something like a god. Even here, they love him.

When they play the anthem, Viktor does not think of home. He mouths along with the words, the Russian syllables dripping off his tongue, but he is thinking about Yuuri. The American skater is close to his right, holding his flowers and his medal respectfully. Above them, the hammer and sickle is in pride of place, but it is flanked on either side by the stars and stripes of the American flag. There is symbolism there, Viktor knows. People will interpret it this way. But he can’t bring himself to care.

His body is still cooling, his breath is coming easier. The ice below is permeating his skin, his bones. He feels alive, and not because of his medal, not because of the anthem playing over the speakers, not because he know that he has brought further glory to the USSR. These things might have had this effect on him years ago, but now they are far less important.

Sing to the motherland, home of the free? Hardly.

When it is over, and photographers move forward to capture them, Viktor acts on impulse. He turns towards Yuuri, who looks up at him with wide eyes. God, he is beautiful. Viktor holds an arm out, gesturing. Yuuri blinks.

“Come up,” Viktor says to him, and for a brief moment Yuuri’s brows furrow in confusion. For a horrible second Viktor’s stomach sinks like lead, thinking that he is going to be publicly rejected – but then Yuuri tucks his bouquet underneath his elbow, and accepts Viktor’s hand up onto the top podium.

Viktor turns and gestures Leo up, too. The younger boy accepts Viktor’s invitation immediately, with a wide grin. The crowd are cheering. The flash of the cameras are blinding. Viktor puts an arm around Leo’s shoulder, and an arm across Yuuri’s, and smiles for the cameras. He glances left once, and then right. Yuuri’s face is flushed from exertion still, his eyes glittering bright. He is smiling so widely.

He glances up at Viktor and shakes his shoulder up and down in excitement, and he laughs – Viktor can’t hear him over the noise of the crowd, but he sees Yuuri vibrate, sees his mouth move. Viktor would give this boy everything.

“Will you watch my exhibition skate?” he asks.

“Huh?” Yuuri leans a little closer to listen better, and Viktor leans in too, so his lips brush against the shell of Yuuri’s ear. He sees the shiver pass across Yuuri’s skin.

“Will you watch my exhibition skate?” he asks again.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, and then he moves away, and says thank you like Viktor has just congratulated him. He is smarter than Viktor, knows to pull a cover over their conversation. Viktor wouldn’t have thought of it – he is becoming sloppy. He turns to Leo and congratulates him too, and the younger boy is ecstatic – he tells Viktor that he in awe of him, and congratulates him in return. Viktor will keep an eye on this boy – he is up and coming.

And then the photos are done, and they must step down from the podium, and they are ferreted away to the media room. Viktor is asked why he pulled the American skaters onto the podium with him – and here, he knows he must be careful.

“We’re entering into a new era of openness,” he says, and the reporter nods sagely, “I feel like it was good to acknowledge this. But of course, skating comes first and Leo de la Iglasia and Yuuri Katsuki are my rivals and naturally I skate to win. I guess –” and here he laughs, “I wanted to show that I’m not a sore winner! Acknowledging the success of other skaters is good in such a solitary sport, and I was listening to the anthem, and I was thinking about the new direction policies of the government and I thought, you know? I should live up to this.”

He smiles for the camera, and the reporter asks him how many gold he has now, and what his plans are for the rest of the season, and he thinks that everything will be alright. After about ten minutes, he and Leo and Yuuri are stewarded to a little table for a mini press-conference for the print media journalists.

Yuuri looks tired, but he can’t repress his smile, and every few seconds he’ll look down and allow himself to grin. He sits in between Viktor and Leo, and Leo nudges his shoulder and says something to faint for Viktor to catch. Yuuri nods and laughs. Viktor rests his chin on his hands and waves and winks at journalists that he recognises. He can see Yuuri quite well in his periphery, sees the way he glances shyly across at Viktor, biting his lip. Viktor turns his head and winks at him too.

The start of a blush appears in Yuuri’s pale cheeks – Viktor wonders if he is the type of person who blushes easily. Wants desperately to be allowed the opportunity to find out. He straightens and holds his right hand out. Yuuri looks between it and his face, blinking is surprise.

“You know,” Viktor says, “we haven’t _technically_ been formally introduced.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and he smiles like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, even as colour builds in his cheeks. He takes Viktor’s hand and shakes it.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, like he’s admitting some big secret. Viktor, still holding his hand, cocks his head to the side.

“Believe…this?”

“Oh!” Yuuri releases his hand and rakes through his hair. It’s still gelled back, but now it is messed and starts to fall over his face, “I just – I’ve never medalled in a big competition before, you know? I’ve – ha – been a fan for years. I can’t believe I got to stand beside you on the podium.”

He speaks differently when he’s sober – his American accent is certainly more pronounced, and Viktor definitely couldn’t mistake him now. But his voice is softer, his words more articulate.

“I watched you skate,” Viktor says, and Yuuri looks as though all of his dreams have come true at once.

“R – really?”

“Yes. I thought you looked like – ”

But then their conversation is interrupted by the interview coordinator, who calls the reporters to attention. Viktor turns away from Yuuri, and for the first time in a while the smile on his face as he answers questions is genuine. He is torn between two potential paths. On the one hand, he knows that openly fraternising with Yuuri familiarly is potentially dangerous for them both, but on the other…it is not, now, as dangerous as it once might have been. Things are, after all, changing.

And he is a good actor. He can pretend for the cameras that he and Yuuri are meeting for the first time. He can pretend to be impassive. He can pretend to be neutral.

Viktor doesn’t know what love feels like, but he knows that this isn’t it. It is something though – whenever he sees Yuuri, he _feels_ something. Happiness, awe – Yuuri’s performances have flaws, and a lot of them, but the way he moves his body is captivating. It feels backwards, that he met Yuuri the person before he was aware of Yuuri the skater. But then again, iff it had been the other way around, things may have turned out the same way.

Viktor has had crushes on other skaters before, but he has never done anything about them. Everything about Yuuri is different, and it is unfamiliar territory, and it is dangerous, but… God, does Viktor want this.

They are asked questions about their performances. Yuuri stammers and blushes and admits to every single one of his mistakes, and doesn’t seem to know what to say when he is asked about what he liked best in his own performances, but he holds his medal and looks so happy and so proud of himself. He isn’t good with media, or with self-confidence, but he radiates energy, and people like him.

He gets asked almost more questions than Viktor, since he has never medalled at such a big competition before, and Viktor has medalled almost more times than he can count. Some skaters, Viktor knows, would be miffed about not being the centre of attention as gold medallists, but Viktor hadn’t been lying when he spoke to the reporter earlier. He isn’t a sore winner.

He is inevitably asked about the podium. He shrugs and laugh and says exactly the same things as he has said to the Russian journalists.

Leo interjects at one point, tells the reporters about how nice he found that moment.

“Rivalry doesn’t have to consume you,” he says, “I liked it, you know? Sport should be more like that.”

Viktor is a little surprised at this, but in a good way. He smiles across at the younger boy, who looks absolutely thrilled.

“Exactly,” Viktor agrees, “good sportsmanship can be hard to come by, no?”

The journalists all nod, and Yuuri and Leo nod, and the questions move on.

When ten more minutes have passed, the coordinator ends the questions, and it is time to prepare for the exhibition skates. The day has been long, and it feels like so many things have changed, even if maybe they haven’t necessarily. Viktor meets Yakov, and is escorted to the dressing room. He takes care not to glance behind him as he leaves.

For his exhibition, he is wearing a simple suit, bow tie undone and looped around his unbuttoned collar. The essence of the exhibition is in its content, after all. Anything more than that with the costume would detract from the performance. As Viktor checks himself in the mirror before he leaves, he does wonder if maybe he should have gone for a pink shirt, for symbolism’s sake. But no, that may be _too_ obvious.

Yakov has gone ahead with Viktor’s things, so Viktor does not expect to have company when he opens the door into the hallway. To his surprise, one of the Soviet handlers – a dour, balding man named Vodianov, who only wears ill-fitting suits in a particularly hideous shade of brown. He is standing opposite the dressing room door, hands in his pockets. When Viktor makes to walk post him, he holds out a hand.

“A word, Mr Nikiforov?”

“Or course,” Viktor says, blinking in exaggerated surprise, “Volganov, wasn’t it?”

“Vodianov,” corrects Vodianov, and then purses his lips. Viktor bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep a smile in check.

“Why did you acknowledge those American boys?” he asks bluntly. Viktor blinks. Well. He can’t say he didn’t see this coming – but all the same, the sensation of fear like a bucket of ice water being tipped into his stomach is not exactly pleasant. But if there is one thing that Viktor is good at, it is charming his way out of potentially sticky situations.

“Oh!” he says, “I thought already explained this? To the sports journalist from 1st Programme, you know? No? Well, like I said to him, the USSR is entering a new period of openness, yes? Or did I mishear when I listened to Gorbachev’s speech in May?”

Vodianov sucks his teeth.

“Yes,” he says, “that is the new stance of the government, but –”

“Good,” Viktor smiles, and flicks his hair out of his eyes with a practised toss of his head, “Our academics are studying with American professors now. I thought it would be a good way to bring attention to the new plan, if I was a good sport about everything.

“And did you know,” he continues thoughtfully, pressing his index finger to his lower lip, “that none of the journalists in the media room or at the press conference said anything negative about it? Isn’t that nice!”

“It – yes,” Vodianov says. He looks as if he has sucked on a lemon.

“I need to go to the ice now,” Viktor says, pulling himself up – he is taller than Vodianov, especially with skates on, and the sallow agent is very aware of it. He squints up at Viktor grumpily.

“Please excuse me,” Viktor says politely, and Vodianov moves aside. As Viktor strides away down the hallway, the smile slips off his face, and he bites his lip. Shit. He may have been successful in charming his way out of that one, but there may be some potential stickiness there. Maybe this is all a bad idea, maybe he should just play the other track, go back to the USSR, find someone else, anything else – but God knows he can’t do that.

He is uncomfortable aware that he cannot go on as he has been. Yesterday’s incident before the short program is more than enough evidence of that. Things have to change – but at what cost?

 

In the arena, Yakov takes Viktor’s tracksuit and folds them without a word. His lips are pursed, and he looks a little like a brooding eagle. His hat is slightly lopsided. Viktor straightens it for him. He glances around the arena, looking for Yuuri. At first he can’t find him, and his stomach clenches. But then he spots him, standing at the other end, flanked by his coach and his friend whose name Viktor just _cannot_ remember right now. He is talking animatedly, and not looking at the ice – but he is here, and he will.

When he skates onto the ice, the applause is rapturous. He turns in a circle as he gets to his starting position, so he can look at the whole arena. Yuuri is watching now, hands clasped in front of him. Good. This is, after all, a message to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Nora, Jas and Aji from the Victuuri Writers Discord for helping me out with a particularly sticky scene!  
> Vaguely unsure when I'll next be able to update, since I'm about to start semester again and I have one week to write an essay which I haven't started, uhhhh....  
> Also, my tumblr is [here](http://www.vntya.tumblr.com) for those of you whom are about that life!  
> edit 21/05/27: as expected I got TOTALLY swamped by uni so it's been awhile since I last updated, and it will probably be several weeks before I am able to update again. BUT I am still writing this fic and am determined to finish it so, never fear, despite the delay I will update sooner or later!!


	7. six - kobe

November 19th 1985 – KOBE, JAPAN

 

Almost as soon as Chris arrives at the skaters’ hotel, Yuuri is at his door. He has been keyed up ever since landing in Japan yesterday – not _anxious_ per se, but definitely in possession of a strange energy which he doesn’t know how to get rid of. It feels like his body is going too fast. He’s held his fingers against his neck several times trying to time his heartbeat, but it is barely faster than normal. Normally he would try and work it off, but now that the competition has started, he can’t just skate until he’s exhausted. Ice time is limited.

Chris is in the middle of unpacking a few essentials into the hotel room wardrobe when he answers the door. Or at least that’s what Yuuri assumes he is doing, since his suitcase is open on the floor and he has a double-breasted trench coat draped over one arm.

“Oh.”

Chris blinks when he sees it is Yuuri shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s you.”

“Ah, yes,” Yuuri says, “I’m really sorry to impose, but I just – can I talk to you? Or is this a bad time…I can come back?” Yuuri trails off as Chris just blinks at him. Great. He’s made a terrible mistake, obviously –

But then Chris nods.

“Of course,” he says, standing back and gesturing Yuuri in through the door. “Please come in.”

Yuuri slides into the room, and Chris shuts the door behind him. It is similar to his – square, whitewashed walls, polished dark brown wood floors. A double bed made up with a white quilt. Out of habit Yuuri takes off his shoes, then lingers awkwardly.

“Honestly, Yuuri,” Chris says over his shoulder as he hangs up his coat, “sit down! On the chair, on the bed…”

Yuuri decides to ignore the way Chris deliberately lets his sentence trail off. He moves towards the desk instead. In Chris’ room, it is placed below the window, overlooking the quiet street below. He sits down awkwardly.

“Can I guess what this is about?” Chris asks. He continues to dig through his suitcase, looking for things to hang up. Yuuri nods, then realises Chris isn’t looking at him.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Is that an answer, or another question?”

“An answer?” Yuuri says. Chris snorts.

“Well,” he adds, as he closes the wardrobe door and flips over the top of his suitcase, “I _assume_ you’re here because you want my advice about how to talk to Viktor?”

Yuuri nods. Chris frowns at him from the other side of the bed. Yuuri wonders, perhaps irrationally, if Chris will tell him that he can’t help. But then Chris smiles.

“Good,” he says, “I’m glad. Did you have a plan in mind?”

“Well…” Yuuri says. He does, in fact, have a plan in mind, but he doesn’t know if it’s a very good one. He remembers with almost uncomfortable vividness the moment he and Phichit had locked gazes after Viktor’s exhibition at Skate America. They had both been thinking of the World’s banquet, were both acutely aware of the significance behind Viktor’s choice of music. At first, Yuuri hadn’t been able to believe it. Watching Viktor out there on the ice, skating to ‘Hold the Line’. The way his body had moved, his jumps and spins, and _smirk_ he wore on his face as he swung his hips, disproportionately sexual when paired with the song.

Yuuri’s own exhibition skate had been performed in a daze, the only thing keeping him grounded the muscle memory and the feel of the music. He had stumbled off the ice, taken his skate guards from Celestino with shaking hands. In his head, he had been running through what he could say, what he _would_ say. Everything was a jumble – an _I know_ , a _You too?_ a _Can I see you again_?

But Viktor was nowhere to be found, then. Phichit had darted away, moving to a better position, trying to see where the Soviet entourage may have gone. But there was nothing to be seen of Team USSR, save the flag, still fluttering up near the ceiling.

“They’re gone,” Phichit had told him, “there’s nothing you can do.”

“I need to talk to him!”

“You will,” Phichit promised, “you can talk to him in Japan! It might be safer there, too,” he added under his breath. Yuuri had been in too much of a daze to do anything more than nod. Part of his mind had been trying to tell him that the last few days had been a dream, that even now he must surely be misinterpreting things. And it had gotten worse, over the month in between Skate America and the NHK Trophy. Yuuri’s doubts were nearly louder than the strength of his belief.

But not quite.

Both he and Phichit had suffered through mid-terms throughout the month in between the two events. What with training, and studying, Yuuri hadn’t thought that it was fair to try and rope Phichit into helping him plot for the NHK, especially because it was an event his friend wasn’t competing in. But plotting and planning had never exactly been Yuuri’s strong suit, and even now, he’s unsure if his idea is any good. But he has to do something, he has to _know_ – and this is the best he has managed to come up with.

“Well, I was thinking that maybe I could just – wear your tracksuit?” Yuuri says now. It sounds a bit stupid when he says it like that. Far too simple, and _obviously_ anyone would see through it…

Chris looks thoughtful.

“You don’t look anything like me,” he says, “but I don’t actually think that matters very much, you know? Let me see…” he turns and opens the wardrobe again, rifling for only a moment before emerging with one of his Swiss team tracksuits.

“Up,” Chris jerks his chin at Yuuri, who stumbles to his feet.

“No one would _really_ think you were me,” Chris adds as he tosses the tracksuit at Yuuri, “but I don’t think anyone will be looking too closely. And people see what they want to see, you know?”

Yuuri gets the distinct impression that Chris has been doing this for years. Dressing up, sneaking around, finding ways to bypass rules he really shouldn’t be bypassing. He doesn’t know Chris well enough to ask him about it, but he desperately wants to. There must be some good stories there somewhere.

Yuuri tugs the tracksuit pants on over his slacks, and pulls the jacket on over top of his shirt. Chris examines him with a critical eye, head tipped to the side.

“It’s a bit big on you,” he muses.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says, “I can cuff the ankles.”

He sits down on Chris’ bed and does just that. As for the sleeves of the jacket, there’s not a lot he can do – he just shoves his hands into his pockets, and hopes for the best.

“Do I look –” Yuuri flaps his arms awkwardly.

“You look good,” Chris says, “Very Swiss. No one will know otherwise.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, but doesn’t move. Chris watches him for a moment – Yuuri half expects him to make a joke, but he doesn’t. Instead he claps Yuuri on the shoulder, and shoves him gently in the direction of the door.

“You should just bite the bullet, Yuuri,” he says.

“You don’t…I mean, he won’t…”

“Trust me,” Chris says. And Yuuri does. He knows, intellectually, that Viktor is interested in him (although he really cannot fathom _why_ ). He knows what Viktor’s exhibition skate meant – and Chris has confirmed this knowledge. But he’s nervous all the same, because _what if_?

“I know,” Chris says, even though Yuuri hasn’t said anything, “I can tell from the expression on your face, Yuuri. You’re worried. But I know this is a good plan, and I know it will be fine.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. He opens the door. Here goes nothing. It feels like everything is hanging in the balance, now the moment has finally come. His heart is made of glass, and Viktor is holding it in his hands. Even if he doesn’t know it. One wrong move and it will shatter. Yuuri’s hands are shaking.

The hallway feels a thousand miles long. The wait for the elevator is endless. On the way up, Yuuri presses a hand to his stomach and begs his heart rate to slow. He is suddenly seized by the inexplicable feeling that he is absolutely about to die, and he’s so _scared_! But the elevator pings quietly, and the doors slide open. The hallway is completely deserted.

907, Yuuri repeats to himself. 907. He can do this. 907.

He knocks on the door as soon as he reaches it, and then he waits. He wants to turn and run, but also – there is no place he would rather be than here. With the hood of the jacket up over his head he cannot see anything that isn’t directly in front of him. He turns his head left and then right nervously, keeping an eye on either end of the hallway in case someone approaches.

The door in front of him unlocks. Yuuri’s heart jumps into his throat.

When Viktor opens the door, he is frowning. He’s wearing jeans and a grey sweater, and he still has his shoes on. He does a double take when he sees Yuuri, and then his eyes widen. Yuuri tries to speak, clears his throat – and there is a blush rising on his cheeks, Goddamn it – tries again.

“Um,” he says, “I – do you want to go for a walk?”

Viktor stares at him, then looks down and stares at the Swiss tracksuit he is wearing. For a moment, Yuuri thinks that Viktor will refuse and is ready to apologise, to back away, to run – but then Viktor smiles.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll just get my coat!”

He steps back, and shuts the door halfway so he can pull his coat from where it is evidently hanging on the back. He had deposited his keys in the little dish on the end table just like Yuuri, and he grabs those as he steps out of the door. And here he is – Viktor Nikiforov, pale cheeks a little pink, trying to shove his arms into a black trench coat as he takes off down the hallway like a man on a mission. Yuuri just stands and stares after him as the door to his room swings shut. Viktor pauses a few steps away, and turns back.  
“Well?” he says. There is a little smile on his face, curving up his cheeks and causing ice-chip eyes to narrow. He tips his head in invitation – silently, Yuuri follows him.

There is so much he wants to say, and he doesn’t know how to say it. He has, after all, never done this before.

Viktor glances across at Yuuri as they wait for the elevator together.

“I like the tracksuit,” he says.

“It’s not mine,” Yuuri says, and then puts a palm to his forehead, “ _obviously_!”

To his surprise, Viktor laughs. It is that little huff laugh that Yuuri remembers from the banquet. Yuuri thinks it must be what he does when he is amused, but doesn’t expect to be.

“I did know that,” he says. The elevator arrives. Thankfully, it is empty.

There is a moment of slightly awkward silence as the elevator descends. It is, after all, difficult to know what to say to someone when you have been mooning after them for the better part of a year, without having actually spoken properly since then.

“Chris lent it to me,” Yuuri says, to break the silence, “when I, uh, told him my plan.”

“Your plan?”

“Mmn,” Yuuri looks down at the ground, and shrugs, “To, um, talk to you.”

There is a short pause. Yuuri looks up nervously. Viktor has his hands braced behind him on the bar set against the wall. He is watching Yuuri, and he looks – unguarded. There is something in his face that Yuuri doesn’t know how to describe. Is he worried? Fearful? …Happy?

“Yuuri, I –” Viktor says. But then the elevator pings.

“Not here,” Yuuri says, and Viktor nods. He takes a deep breath, and turns towards the opening doors. Yuuri is tense all over. His heart is racing. He wonders if Viktor feels the same.

The lobby is not completely deserted. There are a few other guests milling around. Viktor strides ahead without looking left or right. Yuuri trips along beside him. Viktor is taller than him – he has to try hard to keep up with him without jogging. But he understands Viktor’s haste – it will all be easier when they can get out into the city, where they can blend into the crowd.

Someone calls Viktor’s name from across the lobby. Yuuri’s heart palpitates painfully.

“Don’t turn around,” Viktor says under his breath. He doesn’t stop walking, but he does turn his head over his shoulder and waves. He calls something in Russian – Yuuri doesn’t understand what he says, but he hears ‘Chris’. Then the doors slide open, and they are out on the streets of Kobe.

“Walk,” Viktor says, “quite fast. But casually.”

“Who was that?” Yuuri asks. He walks quicker, lengthening his stride as much as possible to keep up with Viktor. The street is relatively quiet, but there are cars zipping past, and several pedestrians flowing across the intersection to their left.

“Only Yakov,” Viktor says. He glances over his shoulder. “My coach. He won’t think anything of it,” Viktor smiles then, looking sideways at Yuuri.

“R- really?” Yuuri hates himself for stammering. Viktor’s eyebrow quirks.

“Really,” he says, “he is used to indulging me.”

The idea of the fierce and indomitable Yakov Feltsman _indulging_ anyone seems at odds with what Yuuri knows of his character. Patron saint of god-awful hats and yelling at his skater in the kiss and cry, Yakov does not seem the kind of person to be forgiving of his prize skater skipping out of the hotel with a Swiss skater – and even less indulgent, should the truth be discovered. Yuuri tugs his hood further over his face. Viktor seems to sense that Yuuri doubts him, because he laughs. It is an unexpected sound.

“I swear,” he says, “Yakov is not as tough as he appears.”

“I believe you,” Yuuri says. Viktor huffs, and tips his head to the side.

“Trust me,” he says, “I have proven my loyalty. Plus, I have many gold medals. He lets me get away with more than most people.”

“So, you – won’t get in trouble?”

“Well, I might,” Viktor says, “but I am very good at getting out of it.”

He smiles brightly across at Yuuri. It’s all a bit much all of a sudden, and Yuuri looks away. His heart feels like it’s going too fast again. It is comforting to him to slip back into his first language, reading street sighs as he leads Viktor further and further and away from their hotel. They don’t speak – Yuuri listens to the conversations being carried out around them, and grounds himself.

Eventually they come to a little café on a corner. Yuuri notices almost subconsciously that it has two doors. He stops. Viktor stops beside him.

“Shall we go here?” Yuuri asks. Viktor nods. His expression is a little uneasy. Yuuri wonders if he, too, has noticed the dual entrances.

Inside, it is busy, but there are several free tables, mostly away from the windows. Yuuri leads the way to the counter. Viktor trails behind him. There is a menu written up behind the bar. He orders a coffee, and then turns to Viktor, who is standing at his shoulder squinting up at the blackboard, looking completely lost.

“What do you want?” Yuuri asks him.

“I can’t read it,” Viktor says, with the air of a man stating the obvious.

“Oh, I’m sorry! It’s, uh, just a generic menu? Coffee, tea.”

“I, uh, don’t have any money,” Viktor says, and bites his lip.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says, “I can pay.”

Viktor frowns, opens his mouth slightly – Yuuri presumes that he about to argue and finds that he is tensing. But then Viktor just shakes his head.

“Um. Tea?” he says, sounding something at a loss.

Yuuri orders him black tea. The late afternoon sun has emerged from behind the clouds and is streaming in through the windows. Dust motes swirl in the air. Yuuri watches them as he leads Viktor to a little table in a corner at the back of the room, next to the door to the bathroom. He is carrying both of their drinks. There is a convenient potted plant nearby. Yuuri watches as Viktor glances around, and then moves it sideways with his foot.

“I had the same idea,” Yuuri admits. Viktor smiles at him, and takes his tea from Yuuri’s unresisting hand.

“You know,” he says, “we usually drink this with jam, at home.”

“With jam?” Yuuri frowns as he takes his seat, “like – how does that work?” For some reason, he is imaging spreading the jam around the edge of the cup with a little knife, and the image is so ridiculous he has to bite back on a laugh.

“Mmn,” Viktor wraps his hands around the cup, “a spoonful, to sweeten it.”

“Oh! I was picturing something different,” Yuuri admits. Viktor smiles again, and looks down at his cup.

“Do you think they would find it strange if I asked for jam?”

“Er, yes, unfortunately,” Yuuri admits, “especially for putting it in your tea. They don’t really go in for jam much here.”

“A shame,” Viktor says. He blows on his tea, and then takes a sip. Yuuri copies him. The coffee is strong, and hot, but not hot enough to burn his mouth.

He has almost forgotten to be nervous, now. He used up most of his nervous energy in the tensions of fleeing from the hotel whilst pretending to be subtle about it, and now he just sort of feels…normal. He could be anywhere, with anyone.

Or – not quite. Viktor is watching him quite brazenly over the rim of his cup. His hair is nearly completely covering his right eye. Yuuri sort of wants to move it out of the way, but he doesn’t dare. Dressed as he is, incognito in his sweater, Viktor could be any foreign tourist. Yuuri tells him this.

“I know,” Viktor says. He pauses. “I do sometimes get out and about, you know? Usually with Chris. They don’t like it, but they’re not about to come after me to try and find me.”

Yuuri feels like a chunk of ice has slid into his stomach.

“They won’t – come after us...?”

“No,” Viktor assures him, “they couldn’t stop me, they won’t try to find us – and I’ll come back, and laugh it off, and it will be fine. I only toe the line. I never break it, I’m –” he stops suddenly, takes a deep breath. “I don’t usually talk this much about, you know. Way things are.”

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri says quietly, “if you don’t want to.”

“That’s thing, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

“Thing?”

“ _The_ thing, sorry – we have no…what are they called? The word the? We have no word ‘the’ in Russian, I always forget,” Viktor laughs at himself, shaking his head, “anyway, I – _the_ thing, I meant to say. That’s _the_ thing. I do want to.”

The small part of Yuuri’s brain that is forever and always twelve years old is able to acknowledge what a moment this is. He, Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov’s biggest fan, sitting in a café in Japan, with said Viktor Nikiforov, having what seems to be a frank conversation. This part of Yuuri’s brain is charging all over the place, exclaiming at how soft his hair looks, and how pretty his eyes are, and how fine the bones of his hands are as they curl around the cup, move from the table to his mouth and back again.

The main, _functional_ part of Yuuri’s brain is no less wondering. There are a thousand things he wants to say, and now that he is here, he doesn’t know how to say them.

“I, ah, assume that you saw my exhibition skate?” Viktor asks. He glances up under his eyelashes. Yuuri feels this look like a lance.

“Yes,” he says. His voice nearly breaks in the middle of the word. “I did. I – assume I didn’t misinterpret…?”

“No,” Viktor says, “you didn’t. So long as you assumed that,” and here he pauses, stumbles over the words, and Yuuri can think of a million reasons why. “I want…you.”

“I,” Yuuri says, and promptly runs out of words. He feels as though he already knows everything that he needs to ask, but at the same time there is no surety, everything is unreal and unsure and Yuuri doesn’t know what he is doing. He takes a sip of his tea.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Viktor says quietly. He is still holding his tea in both hands, looking over the rim of it at Yuuri. There is something quiet in his face. He carries his secrets so well.

“You know,” Yuuri says awkwardly, “I’ve never been very good at understanding politics.”

“Neither have I,” Viktor replies, “it doesn’t usually matter to skating, so…”

“What’s Russia like?” Yuuri blurts out, before he can stop himself. Viktor, who has been raising his tea to his lips, pauses. He blinks owlishly.

“In what way?”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Yuuri shrugs, “what is Leningrad like? How different is it to America?”

“Hmn,” Viktor sips his tea and then just holds it in front of his face. He looks distant, thoughtful. Picturing his home. Yuuri’s eyes rove across his face hungrily. He wonders if it would be too obvious if he pinched himself.

“I live near the old city,” Viktor says, “Peter’s city. I can see it from my window, you know. Across the canal to the old buildings. In the early winter when the snow is first falling, it is like iced cake. You know the kind? With sugar?” he waves a hand vaguely in the air between them to indicate – what, Yuuri is unsure. He can imagine it well enough, even though he’s not sure he even knows what the old city of Leningrad looks like. He’s picturing big old buildings and glittering onion domes topped with snow.

“It sounds beautiful,” Yuuri says.

“Mmn,” Viktor at last puts his tea down, and places his hands in his lap, “it is. But –”

“But?”

“But it is dark, too,” Viktor says, with a sad little smile that Yuuri wishes he knew the story behind. “What is it like, where you are from?”

“Well, it’s not nearly that old,” Yuuri begins. Viktor tips his head sideways into his shoulder, a strange little half-shrug of amused acknowledgement. “It’s – I don’t know. Big and square and loud, with lots of parks. And a lake.”

“A lake?” Viktor frowns, “like a small lake?”

“Oh – a big lake. You know the great lakes?”

“No,” Viktor shakes his head. So Yuuri finds himself explaining the geography of North America to a Russian man who has been to eighteen different countries but truly visited none of them. Viktor folds his hands underneath his chin and listens with an intent frown as Yuuri tries to describe the Midwest. Eventually, Yuuri just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a random scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil.

“Draw me a map,” he says, and Yuuri does. First, he draws a wobbly and probably proportionally highly incorrect outline of North America. Then he draws a weird vaguely phallic-shaped lake with makes Viktor snort.

“Um,” Yuuri says, trying to fight down a blush, “so that’s Lake Michigan,” he says, “and this is Lake Superior – it’s not actually that round, I just can’t draw – and this one is Lake Huron. Oh! And this is Canada.” He draws a wonky line across the middle.

Viktor frowns at the map, and then touches his finger down on the peninsula between Yuuri’s terrible outlines of Lakes Huron and Erie.

“This is where Skate Canada was held, yes?” Viktor says.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, “and here –” he moves his own hand behind Viktor’s, tapping lightly against the vague location of his city, “that’s Chicago.”

Viktor does not move his hand off the page as Yuuri points things out. They are both leaning slightly across the table toward each other. Yuuri is very aware that Viktor has deliberately left this hand there. He is too afraid to touch him. But in the end, he doesn’t need to. Viktor withdraws his hand, and Yuuri feels a sharp little stab of bitterness in his stomach – instant regret. But then Viktor tentatively brushes the back of Yuuri’s hand. He is frowning down, not making eye contact. Yuuri’s entire body goes still at the brush of skin on skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Just watches Viktor trace a pattern on his skin. It takes him a moment to work out the shape that Viktor is drawing – a circle? With dots inside it?

Oh. He is re-drawing Yuuri’s map, dotting the shape of the lakes just beneath the knuckle of Yuuri’s index finger.

“Chicago,” he repeats, moving his finger a fraction of a centimetre.

“Hey, Viktor,” Yuuri says thickly. Viktor glances up at him. “I have a question?”

“Mmn?” Viktor will not stop touching him.

“I just wondered – I mean I figure I know already, but I wanted to be sure, I guess, even though it’s probably not necessary…why did you leave?”

“Why did I leave?” Viktor frowns.

“You know,” Yuuri shrugs, breaks eye contact to stare into space, because despite having actually been present and participating that night, actually talking about it seems just a little embarrassing. “That night. In March.”

"Oh, you know," Viktor stops touching Yuuri’s hand. He holds his hands underneath his chin instead. His expression is neutral - all nonchalance even as Yuuri is anxiously knotting his own fingers together, "I couldn't stay with you."

His word choice is unusual. Yuuri knows that he shouldn't read too much into it - Viktor is foreign, after all, and although his English is very good, it is likely this is just a slip in wording.

But still. The 'with you' makes Yuuri wince. Viktor doesn't appear to notice.

"I understand," Yuuri says.

"Mmn," Viktor looks down into his empty tea cup, as if he is going to read the dregs of the leaves in the hope they will tell him his fate.

"I know I seem now as if I do not care," Viktor continues, "about - the fact that you are, of all things, an American."

"Thanks," says Yuuri blankly. Things have suddenly started to spiral.

"I didn't know if it was worth it then, you understand?" Viktor leans back, pins Yuuri down with a loaded look. "I had to make fast decision, and my ...fear was greater than anything else."

Yuuri notes the stumble over the word 'fear'. He unclenches his fingers, and cautiously places his hands flat on the table. Viktor surveys them with interest.

"I don't know if I'm worth it," he says. Viktor frowns, confused.

"Anything would be worth it," he says slowly, cryptically. Yuuri doesn't get it.

"What do you mean?" he asks, and Viktor frowns.

"Yuuri," he says, "I can't talk about, you know. Not here." He sighs in frustration.

Oh. Right. The ever-present Soviet oppression of the renegade Russian figure skater sitting opposite. Yuuri is frustrated too, by the war and the walls and everything that seems to be getting in the way. But in the way of what?

"What is this?" he asks, "what are we?"

"I don't know," Viktor says, "but I want to find out. I am willing to find out. I think the cost will be greater if I don't."

"If you don't _what_ , Viktor?" Yuuri cries. Viktor starts and glances around, then reaches across the table and takes Yuuri's hands.

"I need to get _out_ , Yuuri," he whispers.

"Is that all I am?” Yuuri asks, “a way out?"

_"No_ ,"Viktor insists. He shakes his head vehemently. “I mean - yes, but - no, Yuuri, I swear, you're more to me than that, it's just I don't know - you. I don't know you!"

Viktor's voice has gotten louder now too, and although he isn't _actually_ shrieking, his voice has that note of hysteria in it which Yuuri recognises from many, many hours spent in the presence of Rosie.  He lets go of Yuuri's hands and pushes his hair back from his forehead, tugging slightly on his hair.

"I know," Yuuri says quietly. He doesn't know Viktor, not really, he knows this idea of Viktor, combined with one night and a handful of social interactions. "Maybe this is a bad idea.""

"I don't want to believe that, Yuuri,” Viktor says – and God but Yuuri loves it when Viktor says his name - "even if everything goes to hell, even if...regardless, I want you. Will you have me?"

"Will I - yes," says Yuuri. His tongue runs away from him a little bit. Could he possibly be any keener? He is blushing. He knows he is blushing. Bright red, out of his depth, standing on the edge of something. There's a phrase he has heard somewhere before, probably from Yuuko, something about the 'call of the void'. The random urge to self-destruct at any given moment. He wonders what would happen if he just got up and walked away, if he told Viktor no. The voice in the back of his head which is always filling his head with doubts is questioning Viktor's motives, and loudly. But Yuuri is selfish, has always been selfish.

“I could – come and see you? Sometime?” Viktor suggests. His voice is soft.

“Wouldn’t that,” Yuuri swallows against the lump in his throat, “wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

“Probably,” Viktor sighs. He pushes himself back from the table slightly, palms hard against the edge. He drums his fingers once, irritably.

“I am tired of it,” he says, “not being able to be who I am. You know?”

Yuuri doesn’t know, not really. Viktor is still almost unreal, a strange figure from a far-off land who had been tugged into life like an asteroid crashing to earth. It had been jarring in March, and it is jarring now.

“I don’t,” he says slowly, “ _really_ know.”

“No,” Viktor agrees softly. He scrutinises Yuuri with a thoughtful frown.

“What does this mean to you?” he asks, “Why is this – Why am _I_ …?”

Yuuri does not have to think too hard about his answer.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he says – and if he doesn’t go into detail about his life-long crush, about the intensity of feeling the last few months, well. Those are stories for another conversation.

“And you’re worth it,” he echoes Viktor’s earlier words.

 

***

 

Time, and another cup of tea, has passed before Yuuri sees him. A man in a rain hat, peering in from the street. Yuuri vaguely recognises him, but can’t place where he knows him from. When he removes his hat and steps inside, Yuuri is instantly able to place him. He is a part of the Team USSR entourage.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says. His stomach is ice. Viktor hears the tremor in his voice, sees where Yuuri must be looking and freezes.

“Who is it?” he asks in a whisper.

“Um – he’s short, not a lot of hair…”

Viktor blanches, and swears under his breath in Russian. He glances around desperately, looking for an escape.

“There’s a bathroom,” he says, “behind you.”

“You go first,” Yuuri says. There is white noise in his ears. The man from the USSR is glancing around vaguely, but he’s moving to the side and he will surely see them sitting on the other side of the potted tree. Viktor moves like lightning, bent double as he shoots around the side of the table like a ghost. For a moment Yuuri is frozen – should he stay, pretend that he came here alone – but no, there are two cups on the table…he could distract the agent, give Viktor time to get away… but then Viktor’s hand is on his shoulder and he’s out of his chair, and they flee together through a door that thank _God_ isn’t locked.

It is not, in fact, a bathroom. It is a short service corridor. To the left is a swing door which, from the sound of voices and the clattering of dishes, clearly leads to the kitchen. To the right is the bathroom proper, and an open cleaning closet. There is no exit to the outdoors. Viktor and Yuuri glance at each other.

It’s stupid, of course it is. But they do it anyway. The closet is spacious – plenty of room for both of them. Viktor steps sideways and pulls Yuuri in after him, then reaches behind him to pull the door shut. Yuuri flicks the light off. Then the door closes, there is no light, except for a sliver under the door which illuminates nothing. Yuuri immediately realises the gravity of the mistake.

“What if he comes in and sees us?” he finds himself babbling, “I should have stayed – if he sees us together, we’-” Viktor cuts him off by pressing two fingers to Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri cannot see him in the gloom, is aware only of his heartbeat raging in his ears and the tremor in his palms, pressed flat against the back of the door. Is aware, too, of the touch of Viktor’s fingers against his lips. Of the warmth his body is radiating. He is standing very close.

It is a good thing that Yuuri is so afraid. Otherwise, he would probably be aroused. Getting into a dark, confined space with a beautiful man is rarely a good idea. In the hallway, there is silence for a time. Then a door opens – someone walks past, and goes into the bathroom. More silence. Yuuri can hear his breath whistling through his lungs. He hears Viktor swallow. Cautiously, Viktor removes his hand from Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri tries not to mourn the loss as he listens hard.

After a few minutes, the door to the bathroom opens again. The patron walks past them. He is humming a song. It is not one that Yuuri recognises, but he hears the sharp intake of Viktor’ breath, and senses movement. The door opens – there is a bubble of sound, a sharp upswing in voices – and then the patron re-enters the café. 

The door swings shut.

“Shit,” Viktor whispers.

“What?”

“That song,” Viktor whispers, “it was a Russian one. That was Vodianov, I know it. No one else would know that.”

Yuuri supposes that this is the name of the Soviet man. Viktor’s handler, perhaps?”

“Is he from the KGB?” Yuuri asks stupidly.

“No, I – maybe, yes? He works for Soviet Skating Federation but, he may work for the KGB also. Fuck.”

There is adrenaline crashing through Yuuri’s veins. It makes him reckless. Makes him forget all the reasons he should be anxious. It makes him brave.

He tries to find Viktor in the dark. He is closer than Yuuri expects. Only inches separate them. Yuuri takes half a step and bumps into him, holding Viktor by the shoulders to keep himself steady. Keep himself close. Viktor responds to Yuuri’s tentative touch, leaning in. He stops short of hugging Yuuri in return – there is a rustling of fabric as Viktor moves, but no tactile response. Viktor just sighs.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

“For – all of this.”

The storage facility of a Japanese café is probably not the best place for a serious discussion. The fact that they should not be in it is the dominant reason, because for all other intents and purposes it is really the perfect place. No one to eavesdrop, no one to see them together. And it is dark, and close. The perfect place for other things, too.

“We should go,” Yuuri says.

“Yes,” Viktor agrees. Neither of them move. Yuuri feels Viktor’s hands now, ghosting up his sides. He closes his eyes. There is a clatter in the hallway as the door to the kitchen swings open. Viktor leaps back. There is an exclamation, and the handle of the door is tried. It has re-locked, and with a supressed curse the person who had been trying to get back in returns to the kitchen.

“Time to bounce,” Yuuri says. He opens the door and sticks his head out – no one there. He is worried that Vodianov will still be out in the café, and a glance over his shoulder shows this same concern written on Viktor’s face as well. In the sudden light, his eyes are wide. But he nods, and follows Yuuri out of the closet, closing the door behind him with a click. Cautiously, Yuuri opens the door to main café. He can’t _see_ Vodianov – but that will have to be enough. The door to the kitchen opens again, and Viktor crowds behind him and bundles Yuuri out of the door.

Their table has been cleared – others are sitting there now. Three schoolgirls, poring over a magazine. None of them glance twice at Viktor and Yuuri as they leave the café.

“We should get back to the hotel a back way,” Viktor says, as they pause for a moment on the corner, unsure of which way to turn.

“Um,” Yuuri says, “I’m just trying to think – this way?” He is trying to recall what he knows of Kobe’s streets. He thinks they could probably get back to the hotel by going to the right, cutting down an alleyway, then…

“Well, I hope we don’t get lost,” Yuuri says as he leads the way. Viktor lopes beside him, checking his stride so Yuuri will find it easier to keep up with his long legs.

“I trust you,” Viktor says. A sudden realisation of the _strangeness_ of that nearly causes Yuuri to stop. He may be generally very aware of politics, but he does know some things. He knows that the USSR and the USA are enemies. Knows that there is no such thing as trust between them. But here Viktor is – a Soviet skater, a _Russian_ skater at that, looking across at Yuuri on a darkening street in Japan, and telling him that he trusts him.

It is a small thing, a simple thing. Viktor trusts him not to lead them astray. But the implication of this are much larger. Viktor trusts him with his life, with his career, with his freedom. For reasons which are still unfathomable. And – does Yuuri trust Viktor in return?

Enough to be here with him now, clearly, but…

There is a flash of light as lightning strikes somewhere out at sea. Both Yuuri and Viktor look up. The sky is purple. A low thunderous growl ripples through the air, and as if that were a heavenly signal, the skies open. Both Yuuri and Viktor are drenched in seconds. Viktor swears in Russian, and holds his hand over his head as if that will somehow prevent him from getting wet. It doesn’t even occur to Yuuri to flip up the hood of Chris’ jacket. Instead he takes Viktor’s hand, and starts to run.

It is absolutely pointless to try and get out of the rain – the downpour is torrential. The water hitting the asphalt is so loud that Yuuri can’t even hear his own voice as he yells something nonsensical about the weather to Viktor, who yells something back. Their voices are lost in the storm. Next to them, cars have slowed to a crawl. Lights are coming on, doors are being closed. A few people jog past, holding umbrellas or raincoats close to try and ward against the rain.

The problem is that the rain has ruined Yuuri’s sense of direction. He thinks there is another block to go until they reach their destination, but he isn’t entirely sure that he hasn’t missed it. He tugs Viktor into a doorway, pausing to try and get his bearings.

Viktor is laughing.

“Wow! _Wow_ , Yuuri, this rain!” He cranes his head out of the doorway, raising his face to the sky.

“Yeah,” Yuuri frowns, and pushes his soaking hair back off from his forehead as he frowns out at the street, “I’m just trying to –”

“You look good like that,” Viktor says. He still has to yell, even though being in the doorway and in such close proximity has improved Yuuri’s ability to hear.

“Like what?” Yuuri blinks. Confused? Blind? Cold and soggy?

“With your hair like that!” Viktor says. He reaches out, and pushes back a lick of hair which has flopped down over Yuuri’s eyebrow. And then he stays like that, running his hand through Yuuri’s hair. He is frowning, blue eyes narrowed, worrying at his lower lip. He does not seem to be aware that he is doing it. He is looking at Yuuri’s face, eyes moving rapidly back and forth.

And a doorway in a thunderstorm is just as private, just as secluded as a storage closet in the dark.

“Kiss me,” Yuuri says, so quietly that he is afraid Viktor will not hear, “please.”

 

 

He has waited for this for so long. He wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist, pulling the other man flush against him. Viktor reaches out one arm to brace himself against the wall with a muffled exhalation as Yuuri deepens the kiss. His skin is cold from the rain, and wet. When Yuuri’s hand brushes against a bit of bare skin, exposed where Viktor’s shirt has come untucked, Viktor jumps.

“Hands are cold,” he mumbles against Yuuri’s mouth as an explanation.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. He isn’t. Yuuri opens his mouth, feels the push of Viktor’s tongue against his lip. He is cold, and the brick of the wall against his back in uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care. He could stay here forever.

When it has been five minutes, or fifteen, or fifty, Viktor finally disengages himself. The rain is easing. He is breathing heavily, lips swollen. He reaches down and touches the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he says. “I…may have left some damage.”

“No, you’re fine,” Yuuri says. “You’re good.”

Viktor smiles properly then.

“You have a beautiful smile,” Yuuri says, because apparently one macking session and he loses all brain-to-mouth filtering capabilities. Viktor laughs.

“Your blush is lovely,” he says, “and thank you.”

But then his smile fades. Yuuri would do anything to call it back, to keep Viktor happy and laughing forever, and instinctively his grip tightens.

“We should go back,” Viktor says. Knowing that he is right doesn’t make the truth any easier to swallow.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says quietly. He shakes his head a little to clear it, and then sighs. “Yeah, we should.”

“We should go and get warm,” Viktor adds, “it wouldn’t do to get sick the day before competition.”

“No,” Yuuri snorts, “my couch would _kill_ me.”

“Mine too,” Viktor says, and then frowns. He releases Yuuri and moves back. Yuuri’s body mourns the loss, not least because without Viktor’s back to block the wind, he is distinctly colder. He can’t suppress a shiver, which Viktor notices.

“Come on,” he says, and there is something in his face which seems to have closed off, a mask he has pulled back on. But he still holds his hand out, and Yuuri takes it.

There is no one out in the rain. No one to see two men, two enemies, holding hands as they walk quickly down the street, shoulders round against the water and wind. Viktor’s hair is longer when it is wet. It sticks to his cheeks. Yuuri wants to brush it back, but is struck by the sense that the time for that has passed. Viktor has retreated into himself, is slowly becoming again Viktor Nikiforov the Soviet loyalist, the golden boy, the dedicated skater, who pushes the buttons of the administration but would never in a million years cross them. Yuuri misses the other Viktor, the laughing Viktor, already. The Viktor whom he is allowed to kiss.

Viktor leaves him on the corner. It will be safer, he says, if they enter separately, and Yuuri agrees. He crosses the street and ducks into a bookshop, where he drips on the floor and pretends to read the back of books. Although it is nice to be surrounded by Japanese words, the comforts of his native tongue are not enough distraction. His body is still electrified. The wetness of Chris’ tracksuit as it clings to his skin does not help. It makes him feel dangerous – all that is needed is a spark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it has taken so long to get this chapter up ! Uni kicked me in the ass, but such is life. Fingers crossed I can go back to updating more often now, oops.  
> Thanks to Graci for proofing this chapter for me!


	8. seven - moscow

 

December 1st 1985 - MOSCOW, USSR

 

Moscow is just visible below. From the window of the plane, everything in the snow-blanketed city looks the same. The buildings are shrouded in white, but the winter sky is clear and bright. Such simple sights are similar the world over. All the same, Yuuri keeps his eyes peeled for landmarks of the city. He is familiar with only two, although he had dragged out an almanac at the library before he left Chicago to read up on the city. The airport is too far out of the central city for Yuuri to identify the Kremlin. Instead there are grey prefab apartment blocks spiralling out as far as Yuuri can see, interspersed by wide roads that seem relatively spare of traffic.

He has never been to Russia, nor anywhere else in the Communist Bloc. Phichit had been invited for the Moscow Skate competition in the ’84-’85 season, but had to pull out at the last minute due to a gluteal injury so as to be recovered in time for World’s. It is a first for them both, although Yuuri wishes they were travelling here together.

He and Celestino have travelled direct from Osaka. Phichit is flying from Chicago – accompanied by Rosie, Anna and Andrew. Anna is the only one of them with whom Yuuri does not have some issue, but even then, she hardly counts as a friend. She, Andrew and Rosie are not quite on the same circuit level as he and Phichit, and are not always invited to the same competitions. He has barely seen them since the season started, even though they had also competed at Skate America. He has become skilled at avoiding them.

In Moscow, this will not be so easy.

The main terminal of Sheremetyevo airport is a large blocky building. It is surprisingly modern – as they disembark, Celestino informs him that the international terminal had been built in 1980.

“For the Olympics,” he says. This is obvious enough, as they are currently passing a wall mural dedicated to the event. Around them, the airport is bustling. Most people are speaking Russian, but Yuuri hears snatches of other languages as they pass. Celestino keeps looking around twitchily, and its making Yuuri anxious. This is not helped by the interrogation he is subject to in the arrivals hall. His suitcase is hauled onto a table and combed through meticulously. Everything is examined. He is questioned – repeatedly – about why he is here, and is regarded with looks of suspicion. A young woman, one of two who are combing through Yuuri’s belongings, pulls out a programme for the upcoming event, which is printed in both Russian and English. She looks between it and Yuuri’s passport, brows furrowed. Celestino, undergoing the same process a few metres away, has been attempting to explain figure skating for the last five minutes to the impassive security agent. Yuuri’s agents says something he doesn’t understand to her companion. Idly, Yuuri tries to recreate the sounds in his head.

“This is you?” she says, turning the programme back around and pointing at a line bearing his name.

Yuuri nods. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Ah,” she says. She taps the programme against her hand thoughtfully, then tucks it back into his bag. She closes his suitcase, gives it a little pat, and then smiles at him.

“Good luck.”

Yuuri and Celestino are given back their passports (handed over with a vaguely suspicious glare), and escorted through metal detectors. At last, they are pointed towards the doors to the main terminal.

“Thank God for that,” Celestino murmurs in a voice pitched for Yuuri’s ears only, as they walk rapidly towards the exit. “The Russkies keep things locked down pretty tight. I thought they were never going to let us through.”

“Is it always like this?” Yuuri asks.

“Yeah,” Celestino says darkly, “they don’t like outsiders, you know? Especially not outsiders with American passports. They probably think every American who comes here is –” but then he stops, and shakes his head. Yuuri knows what he had been going to say: a spy. He may be poorly versed in political thinking more complicated than the occasional breakfast news bulletin – although he has been trying to be more aware recently – but even he knows about the infamous wariness of the USSR. Not that the USA treats Russians or American communists with any less suspicion. Not for the first time, Yuuri wonders if he is equipped for the dangerous game he is apparently playing.

 

The rest of Team USA, Chicago skaters included, have arrived on an earlier flight. They have been taken to the hotel already, and it is just those who had competed in Kobe left to be retrieved. They are met in the main arrivals terminal – a wide, low-ceiling space decorated with well-lit advertisements and crowded with people and suitcases – by a group of delegates who are all dressed ( _probably_ accidentally) in shades of grey and brown. With them is a man in a navy sports jacket who Yuuri recognises from the ISU. Yuuri clutches his passport a little tighter.

“You must be Wilson?” one of the delegation steps forward to shake hands with the representative of the USFSA who has travelled with them from Japan.

“Yes,” Andrea Wilson shakes hands with the leader of the Soviet envoy. “And you are…Kitaliyeva?”

“Lydia Kitaliyeva, yes,” she says, “and this is Mikhail Kuznetsov.” She introduces the ISU member, who steps forward beside her.

“We’ve met.” Wilson shakes his hand next.

“Only briefly,” he says with a smile. The skaters all shift their weight and glance around, waiting for the formal posturing to be over. Leo slinks up beside Yuuri, as the officials all try and arrange what is going to happen next.

“Is it always like this here?” he asks quietly, unknowingly echoing Yuuri.

“I don’t really know,” Yuuri replies, “but I think so.”

“Hardcore,” Leo mumbles. But the posturing appears to be over – Wilson confers briefly with the coaches, and they all head out of the sliding doors and into the parking lot. It is bitterly cold – Yuuri hunches down into his coat, and beside him Leo hisses. Moscow is not so much further north than Chicago, really, but it is far enough for there to be a difference.

There is a line of cars waiting for them – far too many. Yuuri does a quick headcount – there are 23 of them, coaches and entourage included, and one…two… _twelve_ cars?

“That’s a bit much, huh?” Leo mumbles beside him. Before Yuuri can respond, Leo is siphoned off by his coach, and they get into the first of the cars. Yuuri and Celestino end up getting into the one at the end, along with one of the Soviet delegation members, who introduces himself as Nikolai. He is also, apparently, their driver.

He chatters away merrily as they begin the long drive into central Moscow. He is talking about nothing in particular – remarking on the good weather, recent events in the Soviet calendar, and so on. But then:

“We are all looking forward to watching this event, of course,” he says, “and no offence to you Americans, but we are hoping that Viktor will win again.”

“Viktor Nikiforov?” Yuuri says, stupidly.

“Yes,” Nikolai says, looking at Yuuri in the rear-view mirror as if he were stupid, “unless there is another Soviet skater whose name is Viktor? Ha!” He gives a great bark of laughter.

“Ah.” Yuuri says. “Um. I’m just a fan, is all.”

“Oh?” Nikolai eyes him with renewed interest. “I didn’t know our skaters were popular overseas.”

This is a strange statement – Nikolai must not be very closely involved with the skating world. It is a small sport, smaller still on the higher levels.

“Skating is a small sport,” Celestino answers for him, shooting Yuuri a strangely unreadable glance. Yuuri takes it as a cue to be silent.

“Ah,” Nikolai says, “so does this mean skaters here would be fans of yours?” he asks with interest.

“Doubt it,” Yuuri mumbles.

“Perhaps,” Celestino says, somewhat more sagely.

 

***

 

“I’m a genius!” Phichit announces at breakfast. He is wearing mismatched pyjamas and has pimple cream on his face.

“Are you really?” Anna yawns.

“Yes, actually, thank you for your faith in me.” Phichit says dryly. “No but, you know how Celestino gave us all that pep talk about, you know, ‘you won’t be able to be a tourist here’ blah blah blah…”

“Oh no.” Andrew puts down his orange juice. “What have you done?”

“Ye of little faith,” Phichit grumbles. He reaches into the satchel he lugged with him into their suite, and removes a handful of brochures. Yuuri picks one up.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Can you read? Look,” Phichit takes it off him, for no other reason than to flap it around, “the Soviet, I dunno, tourism bureau, has a few touristy things. I mean, not touristy like America or like, Paris or some shit, but they have these tours around Moscow for people from other ASSR’s or Communist countries. Usually they’re in Russian, but I found one in English.”

“Wait, are you saying that you’ve somehow managed to get us – a group of _Americans_ – on a tour? Around Moscow, capital city of the Soviet Union?”

“Something like that.” Phichit looks very proud of himself – and rightly so. Yuuri picks up another brochure off the table, and scrutinises it.

“Who did you have to kill to organise this?” he asks. Phichit winks, and taps his nose.

“Are we going to be, like, unchaperoned?” Rosie asks.

“Uh, I dunno.” Phichit shoves an entire slice of toast into his mouth. “I didn’t really think that far ahead. I know we all finish ice time by two though, so I booked it for three.”

“Christ,” says Rosie, accurately summing up the general feelings of everyone at the table.

Later, when they disperse to get ready for the day of training before competition starts, Yuuri manages to get Phichit on his own.

“Are you sure you don’t have any ulterior motives?” he asks.

“Oh, sure,” Phichit shrugs, “this is an opportunity people would _kill_ for. Do you know how much of an insight I’m going to get for my final project this semester?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, “that’s right. I forgot.”

Phichit had changed his mind at the last minute as to what his final project for the year would be, pulling three all nighters in a row and surviving on coffee alone to pull his outline together. He had previously been planning on focusing on the after-effects of the Vietnam war still being felt by veterans living in Chicago. Now, he has decided to study Soviet involvement in Afghanistan.

“You know you can’t just outright ask the tour guides your journalistic questions, right?” Yuuri warns. “You’d probably be kicked out of the country.”

“You play with your fire, Yuuri,” Phichit says, as he unlocks the door of his hotel room, “and I’ll play with mine.”

 

***

 

The national rink in Moscow is large, and surprisingly airy for all it’s concrete and bland cinderblock. There are multiple rinks within the complex – two for hockey, two for figure skating. In America, figure skating is a niche sport, often overshadowed by hockey. But here, ice sports are of greater prominence. Due to the abundance of rinks, the divisions are split between them, which means more training time for everybody. Group One, which Yuuri is skating in, gets the first three hours to practise. The second group, which contains Phichit (and Viktor) get the next three.

Chris, it turns out, is also skating in the first group. As Yuuri is tying his skates, Chris comes trotting past. He is talking a mile a minute to his coach. As he passes, he gives Yuuri a little wave of acknowledgement. A fold of paper comes flying from his palm and lands neatly in Yuuri’s lap. Instinctively, Yuuri nudges it underneath his thigh, and continues tying his skates as if nothing has happened. Chris walks on, now gesticulating as makes some sort of point.

 _What_ , Yuuri thinks, _just happened_?

Glancing around, he removes the slip of paper and opens it. The stock is thin and closer to off-cream than white. There is a message written in pencil in spiky handwriting which he does not recognise. There is a little cartoon drawing of a poodle in the top left-hand corner.

 

 _Hello_ , the message says. _Please forgive me for my terrible drawing. It is my dog Makkachin. I hope you are well._

 

It is unsigned, but Yuuri knows who it was from. The poodle reveals the sender’s identity – as does the fact that it was passed illicitly via Chris. Yuuri knows all about Viktor’s poodle. He remembers vividly the day he learned of the existence of Viktor’s dog. Yuuko had come flying into the rink clutching a fan magazine and flapped it in Yuuri’s face.

“Look!” she had screeched, showing him the grainy press photographs of Viktor with Makkachin, smiling for the camera. “Viktor has a poodle! Isn’t he the cutest?”

Of course, Viktor doesn’t know that Yuuri knows this. Really, Viktor doesn’t know that Yuuri is such a huge fan of his.

Yuuri doesn’t usually keep scrap paper with his skate gear, and is loath to reuse Viktor’s letter. But maybe it’s a good idea – wouldn’t want to keep any incriminating evidence. He pulls a pen out of the side pocket of his bag, and flips the paper over. First, he sketches Vicchan snoozing, and draws a few ‘Z’s above his head.

 

 _Hello to you too_ , he writes, _I liked your drawing! Here is mine. I hope you like it_.

 

He tucks it into his pocket, to give to Chris at the earliest opportunity. The Swiss skater is, it seems, proficient at passing notes. Yuuri wonders again why it is he is so good at this sort of low-level…well, espionage. What messages has he been passing – over the Berlin wall, perhaps? Certainly over the Iron Curtain. Now that Yuuri considers it, international sport is really the perfect way to spy. It’s an easy way to make contacts on the other side…

But no. Yuuri shakes his head to clear the image of Christophe ‘sex-on-ice’ Giacometti as an international spy. It’s just a little bit _too_ ridiculous. A little bit of international illegal message-passing is one thing. Full out espionage is impossible. Yuuri tucks the paper into pocket and zips it firmly, then stands up. At this signal, Celestino comes loping over from where he has been conversing with one of the other Team USA coaches. When Yuuri steps out onto the ice, his competition will have well and truly begun.

 

In the end, it is simple enough to pass his reply on to Chris. They warm down together in a spacious room which is very well lit, if rather cold. When Yuuri takes off his tracksuit bottoms to change into jeans, he jolts the slip of paper out of his pocket.

“You dropped something,” he mumbles to Chris, who is changing next to him.

“So I did,” Chris says. He gives Yuuri a massive wink as he bends down to pick it up, and tucks it into the breast pocket of his baby blue polo.

“Good practise?” Chris asks him.

“Mmn. Could have been better.”

“No one ever finds the Moscow rink particularly homely,” Chris muses.

“I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” Yuuri replies, “but I guess that is why it felt off.”

“People say it feels hostile.” Chris raises his eyebrows. “I wonder why.”

“It’s only ice. It doesn’t have a _feeling_.”

“Do you think?”

“It’s not the ice,” Yuuri explains as he tucks his tracksuit back into his bag, ready to head back to the hotel, “it’s everything else. The crowd, the music, the feeling.”

“Sure,” Chris says, “then I suppose that in Moscow, the music is all you have, because the crowd and the feeling are likely to be against you. Not to mention the judges.”

Yuuri rears back a little, startled. Sometimes Chris is bafflingly vague about what point he is trying to get at. Sometimes, it seems, he is remarkably blunt.

“Really?”

“It’s Glasnost, haven’t you heard?” Chris replies, “people can talk about these things now.”

 

***

 

Yuuri returns to the hotel after his practise, and goes rootling in his suitcase. He had packed it before travelling to Japan and has flicked through it a few times hence, but the ‘ _American’s Guide to the Soviet Union_ ’ is pretty uninspiring reading. The dry and US-centric text, accompanied with grainy black and white pictures, does very little to conjure Russia to the imagination.

Yuuri stands by the window as he waits for the other skaters to arrive, holding the floppy little book in his hand, and watching the sky. It isn’t snowing – Yuuri feels slightly cheated about this. He has always pictured Russia in December as being a winter wonderland – or at least as existing in a perpetual blizzard.

At 2:45, Phichit knocks on his door. Freshly showered and dressed in relatively un-ostentatious brown corduroys, he is towelling his hair.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Yuuri grabs his wallet and stuffs it into his back pocket as he locks the hotel door.

“Are you going to tell me how you managed to arrange this?”

“Can’t a guy have any secrets?” Phichit protests playfully.

“That depends on whether or not they’ll get us, like, kicked out of the country or something.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Phichit rolls his eyes, “you are _so_ dramatic. It’s a free country – well, no it isn’t, but you know what I mean – there’s not some god running the country with an all-seeing eye.”

“So far as you _know_ ,” Yuuri jokes. Phichit has opened his mouth to respond before he realises that Yuuri is teasing him. He elbows his friend instead, causing Yuuri to unbalance and nearly trip into one of the columns in the lobby.

Andrew and Anna are already waiting. Andrew is sitting sideways on an armchair, legs over the side, fiddling with his room key. Rosie arrives soon after, obnoxiously peppy as usual and wearing a large fluffy hat. The skaters mill around, waiting for their guide to arrive. Yuuri keeps checking over his shoulder, looking for Celestino, or Wilson, or anyone to appear and tell them they can’t go. But this doesn’t happen.

Instead, a long and lanky man in a brown trench coat, with brown hair and a sad, droopy sort of face slopes into the lobby and approaches them.

“Are you, uh, Phichit?” he asks all of them at once, frowning intensely as he stumbles over the name.

“That’s me,” Phichit says sunnily. He nudges past Rosie to hold his hand out to their guide, who shakes it vigorously.

“I am Sergei,” Sergei says. “I am your guide.”

“Good-o,” Phichit says, “it’s just us today. Oh, uh, and this is Andrew, Anna, Rosie, Yuuri.”

Sergei nods to each of them in turn.

“You are all Americans?” he asks.

“Yup!” Rosie pops her ‘p’ like bubblegum. “From Chicago!”

“Right,” Sergei says with a frown, which could mean anything, “okay. I will just take you around the centre of city, show you all the good things, yes?”  
“Sounds excellent,” Phichit says. He’s bouncing a little on his toes like a kid in a toy store. He walks next to Sergei as they cross the lobby and exit onto the cold Moscow afternoon.

There are plenty of people out and about on the streets, and as they leave the hotel and walk to the right, a few give the little tour group curious little stares. Being herded around in a group, they stick out like a sore thumb in a country which does not often see tourists. Instinctively they all move closer together. As they walk, Sergei gives them a crash course on Soviet history, starting with the Revolution of 1905. They have not progressed much further in history by the time the reach a side street, at which point Sergei interrupts himself.

“That is the way to the Bolshoi,” he says, “but –”

“Oh, the Bolshoi!” Anna and Rosie echo. Sergei stops walking and blinks owlishly at them.

“You would be interested in looking at theatre?” he asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Anna, Andrew, Rosie, and Yuuri all speak with some enthusiasm. Sergei looks a little wary (“We are not supposed to deviate from the plan, but we have time and since you are interested…”) but leads them to the right, to a small square. There is a large fountain in the centre. It is not running, and the stagnated water collecting in the basin is frozen.

“There it is,” Sergei says proudly, pointing across the fountain to where a majestic colonnaded building of cream stone rises. There are beautiful Corinthian columns several arm spans wide, and a quadriga on top of the pediment. It is the perfect casing for what is inside. The skaters move towards it almost without noticing, drawn in by the mesmerism of the artistry which they know to be hidden within.

Very few skaters enter the upper echelons of the sport without some study of dance, ballet in particular. Yuuri for many years thought his future lay in ballet, before he answered the call of the ice. The Bolshoi has a magnetic appeal.

“Lilia Baranovskaya used to dance for the Bolshoi,” Andrew says to nobody in particular. His head is tipped back as he stares up at the quadriga, awestruck.

“Who?” Rosie asks. Yuuri and Sergei both try to answer at once.

“She works with –”

“The former prima –”

“Ah,” the guide stops, and gestures for Yuuri to go on.

“Well, yeah,” Yuuri continues, “she was Prima Ballerina for the Bolshoi in the late 1940’s.”

“From 1944 to 1951,” Sergei interjects, with a nod, “she is very famous!”

“She was married to Viktor Nikiforov’s coach, right?” Phichit is squinting, which is what he does when he is trying hard to remember something, “and they got divorced a couple years ago, eh?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, “she does choreography for top Soviet skaters sometimes.”

“Does she?” Sergei looks surprised to hear this, “you are quite aware of Soviet art?”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri shrugs his shoulders up around his ears, and shakes his head, “I just, um…”

“We’re all figure skaters,” Phichit explains, waving a hand to indicate the assembled group, “we’re here representing the US in competition.”

“Oh,” Sergei looks shrewd, “I see. So you are also artists, yes?”

“Of a sort,” Andrew says. He nods his head forwards towards the theatre, “A lot of us have studied ballet.”

“ _We_ all have,” Rosie interjects. Anna has said nothing until now – she has merely been staring up at the Theatre, a soft smile on her face. Her grey eyes are wide.

“You know,” she says quietly, “when I was a kid, my next-door neighbour was from Moscow. Pre-Soviet diaspora, you know? Thanks to her, I always entertained a dream of dancing for the Bolshoi – ridiculous, isn’t it?” she looks around at them all, fluffy blonde hair making a halo around her face.

“I never knew that,” Andrew says.

“No, well,” Anna shrugs, “it was always a silly dream.”

And that, it seems, is the end of it. Sergei leads them away from the theatre and back onto the main road. As they round the next bend, Phichit suddenly pinches Yuuri’s arm hard. Yuuri yelps. Sergei looks back at them, eyebrows drawn down into quizzical little tildes.

“Explain?” Yuuri whispers, as he rubs at his arm. Phichit nods across the square – which are in abundance in central Moscow – towards a massive building. It doesn’t seem overly remarkable – just an expanse of windows and stone.

“Wha – so what?” Yuuri shrugs. Phichit sighs.

“That’s the Lubyanka,” he says, very quietly so Sergei cannot hear. “I looked it up in the map before we came. It’s the headquarters of the KGB!”

“Shit,” Yuuri murmurs, taking another look at the building. Sergei is not going to say anything about it, and Yuuri doesn’t want him to. It makes Yuuri’s skin crawl – even though he’s sure the KGB aren’t psychic, and they _probably_ don’t know about Viktor, it still makes him feel watched, on edge, like a deer caught in headlights.

They round another corner, and find themselves at the river. As they walk, Sergei tells them all about the Moskva and its role in the history of the city. Some of his anecdotes are amusing. Most of them are about the glories of Communism. Soon, there are towers rising in the distance, and the guide points them out as the Kremlin. By the time they finally reach Red Square, dusk is beginning to gather at the corners of the horizon.

"Have you really been to Russia if you haven't visited Red Square, though?" Phichit asks Yuuri, as they trip down the cobbles.

"None of us have ever been to Russia before, fool," Yuuri says.

"No shit," Phichit says, with an air of patient suffering, "that’s why we're going!"

"Many people think St Basil’s cathedral as being the symbol of Russia," Sergei says. He has, it seems, been eavesdropping on their conversation. He points it out as it comes into view. It is smaller than Yuuri imagined it would be. In all the National Geographic images, it seemed as if it must be vast, like St Pauls in London, or the Temple in Salt Lake City. And sure, it's _big_ , but thoroughly dwarfed by the Kremlin beside it. Just a little church, bejewelled and bright.

"We Russians do not think this," Sergei continues. He's looking very fondly over at the Kremlin, “although we love her, Kremlin is true symbol of Russia to the Russians. Do you see Ivan's Bell Tower?" he points at one of the towers. There are quite a few, and it's impossible to tell which one he’s talking about.

"Sure," says Phichit.

"This is more what we Russians think of when we think of ourselves," Sergei says.

"But what about the rest of the Soviets?" Phichit asks cannily. Yuuri gives him a warning side eye. Sergei blinks.

"I don't understand," he says.

"Well, you know," Phichit shrugs, "The Soviet Union is made up a lot more people than just ethnic Russians, yeah?"

"Ye-es," Sergei says slowly, as if he is unsure. More likely Phichit's rapid-fire English is just confusing him.

"So what do all the ethnic non-Russians think is the symbol of the USSR?" Phichit continues. “Do they go hard for the bell tower too, or -?"

"Phichit," Andrew says warningly. Sergei just blinks.

"I don't know," he says, "all autonomous oblasts and okrugs have their own symbols of their own national cultures, I am sure. This is what USSR is good for, you see? Every people has their autonomy and their recognition and their right to cultural identity."

Phichit opens his mouth to argue. Yuuri stomps on his foot. Phichit, looking very put out, shuts his mouth. But he continues to look around with a keen eye, and Yuuri knows that he is internally documenting everything he sees. Skating is true passion and everything else, including his university degree, is by-the-by, but Yuuri knows that Phichit is nevertheless highly interested in the world around them. He has a genuine passion for politics and current events and little stories of humanity, and is always looking for opportunities to exploit his undergoing journalism degree. The opportunity to visit the Soviet Union is one such opportunity. The closed-off Communist Bloc doesn't exactly encourage tourism, and to actually be allowed to enter the country, let alone to enter Russia, let alone to enter Moscow - even Yuuri is aware of this significance.

Sergei blinks again, and then evidently decides to just plow on with his routine. He walks them around the square, pointing out various details on the Kremlin walls, and telling very pro-Soviet stories of its history. They spend an inordinately long time at Lenin's tomb, in which they are treated to the full story of Lenin's life. Phichit finds it interesting. Yuuri, rather less so. His attention wanders, fixing on little things around the Square. How large it is - and how empty. People are crossing the square, dressed in thick fur coats against the cold with hats and scarves wrapped around their heads. But they are few, and far between. A couple of trolley buses, ancient and rattly, have passed by, connected to the wires the criss-cross the square.

A chill wind begins to rise. Yuuri snuggles down further into his down jacket. Sergei moves on, taking them at last closer to St Basil's, with is gorgeous even in the gathering dusk. Yuuri could stand and stare at it forever, and he isn't even really into architecture. He wonders if there's anything like this in Leningrad. His guidebook had failed to come anywhere close to describing what Moscow is really like, and he imagines its descriptions of Leningrad are just as inaccurate. He wonders what Viktor sees, when he looks out of his window. In the cafe in Kobe, he had mentioned living by a canal, overlooking the old city. Before he can think too much about it, he asks Sergei a question.

"What's Leningrad like?"

"Leningrad?" Sergei pauses mid-tirade, and frowns thoughtfully.

"It is beautiful city," he says after a moment, "It was built by Peter the Great so that Russia could have a port on Baltic. It was capital of Russia for a time, but now it is Moscow again. It has been Moscow for most of history. Leningrad is the second capital."

"Sure," Yuuri says, "but what does it look like?"

"Like Moscow," Sergei says with a shrug, "only with canals, and some old bourgeois architecture left over from the Imperial days. It is closer to arctic circle, so it is very dark."

Yuuri wonders if that is what Viktor had meant, when he had said 'it is dark there, too'. Just a simple truth – in winter, it is literally dark.

Sergei continues talking, and leads them back towards their hotel now. Their brief glimpse into the majesty of Soviet Russia is over. Phichit is frowning as they walk, and he glances longingly down every street they pass. He wants to get out, to see what is lurking beneath the facade that they are being presented. But this is not likely to happen. The USSR is uncrackable to outsiders.

When Phichit huffs out an enormous sigh, Yuuri frowns at him.

“Sorry,” he waves a hand, “I’m just having a total brain blank moment.”

“What do you mean?”  
“Well, you know,” Phichit lowers his voice. “There’s so much I want to _ask_ him, but I just. Can’t think how to do it!”

“You want to question him for your thesis project?”

“Well, yeah,” Phichit says, “I need to ask _someone_ here about Afghanistan, or else it’s an opportunity wasted!”

“Afghanistan?” Sergei has unusually sharp hearing. Yuuri bites down on a grimace.

“Erm,” he says.

“Yup,” Phichit interjects, “I want to know your opinion on the war in Afghanistan!”

It’s as good a way as asking as any.

“What about it?” Sergei shrugs a shoulder. “It is good cause. The SSSR desires only peace.”

“Sure,” Phichit says, “but don’t you think that a _natural_ ideological spread of Communism is surely better than a forceful one?”

“The government in Afghanistan is a Communist one,” Sergei emphasises, “it is not really a war. Merely a conflict of interests. If –” but then he stops suddenly, and shakes his head.

“We Soviets desire only peace,” he emphasises. Phichit nods, but Yuuri knows he is not really acquiescing. He appears to be thinking hard, and Yuuri can guess what he is planning. Phichit will find some way to get a more detailed answer from Sergei if it kills him.

“It’s Glasnost, haven’t you heard?” Yuuri murmurs. Sergei shoots him a strange look, but he doesn’t say anything. And that, Yuuri supposes, is telling in and of itself.

They are within sight of the hotel now, and Phichit appears to be having some sort of massive internal crisis. He is walking slower and slower. Yuuri matches his pace. Phichit is torn – he keeps looking between Sergei walking ahead of them, and the people passing them by on the street. He is, it seems, in the midst of making a difficult choice. Yuuri relates to this conundrum.

Phichit eventually comes to a decision. He pauses in the street to undo both of his shoelaces, and then props himself up on a bench to slowly retie them. Rosie watches him do this with interest, but says nothing. The only thing she does is narrow her eyes slightly. Then she ups her pace slightly to draw level with Sergei. Yuuri watches her warily.

 “Hey, so,” Rosie tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Sergei’s eyes track the movement, “is it true what they say about Russian men?”

“Huh?” Sergei startles. Rosie is talking a mile a minute, and Sergei is blinking, eyes wide as he leads the other three away. The hotel is only just around the corner, but Phichit and Yuuri are suddenly and inexplicably alone in Moscow. Even though they really _have_ only stopped for Phichit to tie his shoe.

Or – maybe not. As soon as Sergei is gone, Phichit pops up.

“Come on,” he says to Yuuri, “we should be able to talk to some people before we have to go back!”

“What are you going to say?” Yuuri asks. “Last I checked you didn’t exactly speak Russian.”

“I learned a little bit,” Phichit says blithely. He turns to the next couple of people who are passing them by and greets them in awkward Russian. They stop walking to stare at him. The pair of men appear to be in their early thirties – one is quite tall, thin with dark hair and moustache. The other is small and blonde, and looks very startled. This, it seems, is just his perpetual expression, because it does not waver in the next five minutes. He asks them a question – or at least what Yuuri assumes is a question – and then when they don’t answer, asks them something else.

“English?” Phichit asks, “Anglijski?”

“No,” the dark haired one says. He squints between Yuuri and Phichit, and then points to Phichit’s wrist. Phichit glances down in surprise.

“Er, yes, it’s a watch,” he says, “do you want the time? It’s 4:47. Do you know anyone who speaks English?”

The two men converse quickly and bemusedly in Russian. One of them reaches into his packet, and pulls out a thin stack of bills.

“Watch?” he repeats hopefully.

Phichit is baffled, and exchanged a glance with Yuuri, who shrugs.

“Hey!” a woman calls from somewhere down the street. Yuuri and Phichit both crane over their shoulders. To their surprise, it is Mila approaching. She is wrapped up snug in an enormous fluffy white coat which frames her face and falls nearly to her ankles. She calls something else in Russian, the rough words falling off her tongue like honey. The pair who had been soliciting the American boys respond in kind. Mila breezes past them, talking a mile a minute. She gesticulates in their direction. Yuuri exchanges a bemused glance with Phichit, who folds his arms and raises his eyebrows.

The dark-haired man raises two hands in defeat, and he and his companion slope off. Mila turns to them with a dazzling grin.

“Sorry about that,” she says, and after having just her speak in Russian, it is a little jarring to hear her speak now in English, “this sort of thing happens often here. There is joke – ah,” here, she frowns, “I do not know how to translate.”

“It’s alright,” Phichit says, “we probably wouldn’t get it, anyway. I’m Phichit, by the way.” He holds his hand out to Mila, who shakes it enthusiastically.

“I know!” she says, “I am Mila!”

“I know,” Phichit echoes, and they both laugh.

“And hello to you too, Yuuri,” Mila says. She winks at him.

“Hey,” he says. He is surprised that she is here talking to him so openly – but then, there are people all around who can hear them talking in English, and no one seems to look twice. They all have their lives to be getting on with, and a group of foreigners is nothing all that remarkable. Sign of the times.

“How are you doing?” he asks her.

“Oh, good, you know,” she shrugs, “I am supposedly going to win, so it cannot be so bad!”

“Oh, sick,” Yuuri smiles, and she frowns.

“I am not sick?”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri says quickly, “I just meant – of course you’re not _sick_ sick, I just meant. It means, uh. Nice. Cool. You know?”

“Ah!” Mila nods, and nudges him with her shoulder. “Yes, okay! I am sick!!”

They have gone from awkward acquaintances to friends, apparently. Mila seems to be the sort of person to be casually physically intimate, and although Yuuri stiffens a little, he doesn’t mind overmuch. Mila’s implicit trust of he and Phichit says a lot about her.

“You are both also going to do well, no?” she says. They have started walking back to the hotel.

“Team USA skaters are never going to do _overly_ well here,” Phichit points out wryly. Mila snorts.

“True,” she says, “but still! You are here, are you not?”

“Also true,” Phichit says.

“Are you ready for start of competition?” Mila asks.

“I think so,” Phichit says, “I’m pretty confident in my routine this year, so.”

“Ah, but so are Viktor and Georgi,” Mila teases, “you have hard competition!”

“Oh, we’ll see,” Phichit teases her right back, “like I said – I have a lot of confidence.”

“I can see,” Mila says. Phichit hums thoughtfully.

"Erm, if I can ask," Phichit begins.

“Don’t ask her about Afghanistan!” Yuuri hisses. Phichit rolls his eyes.

“Wasn’t going to, but thanks for the warning. Nah, why did those two dudes want my watch?"

"Oh," Mila laughs, "that is because they could ... not to sell, to...pass on, to others, you see? Ah, it's hard to explain," she frowns, and glances around. They are quite alone on the street. Light, dry flakes of snow are starting to drip from the heavy sky. Yuuri has to resist the urge to tip his head back and stick his tongue out.

"Some people are allowed to sell things," Mila says, "at market farms."

"Farmers markets?" Phichit suggests. Mila nods.

"Mmn! This is new, it is not something that has happened before. People who want things outside of what is allowed must get them outside of what is allowed."

Phichit and Yuuri look at each other over Mila’s head. Yuuri is quite sure that, should it be discovered that Mila has spoken to them so openly about what sounds like flagrant black-market trading, she would get in serious trouble - and not just because they are Americans. This is the sort of information that no outsider should be given. Yuuri is very aware, then, of the fact that Mila is only seventeen.

"What does that have to do with the watches?" Yuuri tries to guide the conversation back to what he hopes may be safer ground.

"Oh, they can be exchanged for things - it is, how you call it? Barter system?"

"Yeah," Phichit says, "so - watches are worth a lot, on the black market?"

"I suppose so, yes," Mila says, quite cheerily.

Mila, in her fur coat and flaming red hair, looks so _Russian_ , here stalking the Moscow streets. She is so open, so friendly – Yuuri wants to protect her, wants to keep her safe from any collateral damage of her own personality. He wonders, then, if he is doing the right thing, pursuing Viktor. Trying to get close to these people, whose lives are so different, and yet the same.

Because what will happen to him, if he is found out? He will probably lose his career, although that would be more to do with the fact that his foreign lover is a man, as opposed to the fact that he is a Russian. But what would be the cost for Viktor? His career. His freedom. His life?

Oh, God. Yuuri feels the beginnings of a panic rising. He feels shaky, body going too fast, warm despite the chill. Breathing get harder as adrenaline floods his veins. But there, thank God, is the hotel, rising ahead like a beacon in the night. And night _is_ falling now, so early because they are so far north, and it is winter, after all. Not so far away from the shortest day. Further north, in Leningrad, it will have been dark for hours.

Yuuri is vaguely aware of Phichit telling Mila that she should go on ahead, because he and Yuuri want to further examine a poster that Phichit has spotted. She laughs and agrees and strides off, her white coat fading fast in the encroaching gloom.

Phichit takes Yuuri by the elbow, hard.

"Yuuri," he says, "breathe, okay?"

"Um," says Yuuri. I'll try, he tries to say. Fails, because he's twitchy and shaky and doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry, run for the hotel or sit down in the snow.

"It's alright," Phichit tells him.

"Is it?"

“Hey, dude, take a deep breath. Breathe with me, okay?” Phichit steers Yuuri backwards towards a nearby bench, and shoves him down onto it. The jarring impact knocks something loose in Yuuri’s lungs, and he sucks in a deep breath which cuts through the shaking.

“I’m just,” he says – his teeth are chattering, but that could be the cold – “thinking about, you know, am I doing the right thing? Am I?”

“I don’t know,” Phichit says, “Yuuri, I have no idea if you’re doing the right things or not. But hey,” he sits down, and then yelps – the bench is cold.

“Look,” Phichit says, “I don’t know if _either_ of us are doing the right thing. I don’t even know what the right thing _is_. Did you know that the government is funding rebels in Afghanistan? Just like Contra. Like – is that good? Is that bad? I dunno man.”

“But that’s politics,” Yuuri says.

“What, you think this isn’t?” Phichit scoffs. “You can fall in love with a one night stand, you can want to drag him across the world and fuck his brains out. But the reason why you can’t is all to do with politics. You know it, he knows it. So like I said,” Phichit pushes his hair back from his forehead with a sigh, tugging and tugging until his eyebrows are halfway up his forehead and his eyes are wide.

“I don’t know if you’re doing the right thing. I don’t know if the US government is doing the right thing, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing trying to do a journalism project that’s kind of a bit above my paygrade, I don’t even know if we’re right to be at war. I don’t know what the right thing _is_!”

Yuuri and Phichit sit for a moment. Yuuri looks over his friend’s head, at the snowy street. The buildings look nothing like Chicago. Down the road, there is a neon street sign over a store. It is not turned on, and hard to read. If he squints, Yuuri can still make out the Cyrillic letters.

“What do we do, Yuuri?” Phichit asks.

“We skate,” Yuuri says, “everything else doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it _does_ ,” Phichit says.

“Okay, yeah,” Yuuri corrects, “it does matter. But maybe not right now?”

“Sure,” Phichit nods, “okay. Let’s just. Do what we do best, huh?”

“Try and beat the Soviet skaters on their home territory?” Yuuri suggests wryly.

“Sure, what the hell,” Phichit tosses his hands in the air as he gets to his feet, “may as well. Let’s aim high.”

 

***

 

The next day, the competition begins. Yuuri is up early, wanting to get to the rink before other people, so he has a chance to collect himself. He snarfs down his breakfast, talking little. He wants to just focus on his routines, running them over in his head again and again. He could do them in his sleep, but still. He chafes at the metaphorical restraints, as he waits for some of other skaters to be ready so they can be escorted to the rink. Surely he can just walk –?

He is edgy and nervous. If he were calmer, he wouldn’t be nearly so impatient.

“Tell her I’ve gone to the rink,” he mumbles to Andrew. Before he has a chance to respond, and when Wilson isn’t looking, he adjusts his skate bag over his shoulder and strides down the hallway, as if he has every right to be here, as if he knows exactly where he is going. On the other side of the lobby is a swing door to a service corridor. The hallway on the other side is empty, and marked with neon green signs.

Although he can’t read the signs, the figure of the little running man underneath is clear enough. He follows the signs to the emergency exit – prays that the door won’t set off an alarm – and escapes into a little alleyway. A surprised maid, smoking a cigarette, blinks at him as he strides past. He smiles apologetically at her, but says nothing. His knowledge of Russian is limited to ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘English?’, and none of those words are really overly appropriate for this situation.

Down the other end of the alley, he finds himself on the road which runs perpendicular to their hotel. It is the busy street that they had walked only yesterday with Sergei. He knows the way to the rink well form here. It is about 30 minutes to walk, but Yuuri is planning to run. He digs his Walkman out of one of the pockets on his bag, and presses play. It is another one of Phichit’s motivational mix-tapes. People give him very strange looks as he runs past them, but _God_. It’s nice to be on his own, feeling his lungs burn in the frigid winter air. He makes it in ten minutes.

The rink is mostly empty. There are lots of staff present, but very few other skaters. Yuuri has the warm up room to himself. He stretches a little to make sure the run has no adverse effects, and then heads to the main rink to scope things out. The room is empty, aside from a few event staff who are drinking coffee and discussing something around a clipboard. They pay no notice to Yuuri as he walks laps around the outer edge of the boards. He is playing his routine music over his Walkman now. Centring himself. Finding his focus.

He does not notice when he is no longer alone. He walks on, staring ahead, mouthing the words to himself. Occasionally his hands twitch at his sides, itching to move into position. He does not notice Viktor until the other skater is directly in front of him. He very nearly walks into him.

Viktor’s hands shoot out to steady him, and Yuuri’s headphones slip off his head.

“Careful,” Viktor says, “you really do make a habit of this, hmn?”

“Vi – Viktor! Yuuri yelps. Viktor tips his head to the side and smiles.

“Yes, that’s me,” he says, “what are you doing here all alone?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, “you know. Just. Scoping things out?”

He doesn’t know why that comes out like a question. His eyes are darting all over Viktor’s face, taking in his quirked lips, the pointed tip of his nose, the brush of his nearly translucent eyelashes against his cheeks as he blinks. His hands burn with the memory of the feel of Viktor’s hips.

“Fair enough,” Viktor says. He turns away from Yuuri and stares out across the ice with a frown. “I like to do the same.”

“Is there anyone else here?” Yuuri asks.

“Mmn. Yakov is around somewhere. So are Georgi and Dima and Valentina. Lilia too, I think.”

“Lilia – Baranovskaya?”

“You know of her?” Viktor glances across at Yuuri.

“Oh. Mmn. We were talking about her yesterday.”

“Who on earth to?” Viktor laughs, “I did not think Russian former ballerinas would be a popular topic of conversation for Americans.”

“Oh, we went on a tour,” Yuuri leans over the edge of the barrier too. If he reaches far enough, can he touch the ice? He’s not going to try. “We went past the Bolshoi. It came up.”  
“Oh,” Viktor whistles, “you went on a _tour_? In _Russia_?”

“Erm, yes?”

“You surprise me,” Viktor says. He smiles as he says this, like Yuuri has given him a precious gift.

“I can’t take the credit for it,” Yuuri says, “it was all Phichit’s doing.”

“Still,” Viktor says softly, “not many Americans would want to do that. Wander around the Soviet Union. Treat it like any other country.”

“I’ve never really…thought of it like that,” Yuuri says.

“What, as another country?”

“No, as – _not_ being just any other country.” Yuuri says. Viktor pushes himself away from the edge of the barrier, and surveys him.

“Are you the only American skater here right now?” he asks.

“Erm, yeah,” Yuuri pushes his hair back awkwardly, just for something to do with his hands, “I uh, didn’t want to wait. So I ran.”

“You ran,” Viktor repeats.

“Yeah. From the hotel. I told my friend Andrew to tell people where I had gone, and I came by myself.”

Viktor whistles again in admiration.

“Stop, oh my God,” Yuuri says, “don’t you know I’m going to get in _so_ much trouble?”

“Oh, sure,” Viktor says, “you are a rebel, huh?”

His eyes are sparkling, his gaze soft. He is not only talking about Yuuri escaping from his supervisors.

“Yeah,” Yuuri repeats softly, “I guess I am.”

“Well, me too,” Viktor says. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and tips his head in the direction of the warm up rooms.

“We should get ready,” he says.

“Lead the way,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t, though – Viktor falls into step beside Yuuri as they walk half a lap of the rink together. It is still relatively empty, but it is filling fast. There are more staff members milling around. One of them says something to Viktor as he passes, and Viktor nods and replies.

“What was that?” Yuuri asks.

“Oh, he told me Yakov was looking for me,” Viktor says, “I told him where to find me.”

When they get to the warm up room, Andrew is there. He looks between Yuuri and Viktor with narrowed eyes, and then calls Yuuri over.

“What was the reaction?” Yuuri asks.

“Uh, pretty bad,” Andrew says, “Wilson was super pissed. Celestino wasn’t too bothered, but you might get a bit of a dressing down later. They said you might’ve been murdered or something.”

“This isn’t Detroit,” Yuuri says, “I don’t think murder of American tourists is really all that common here.”

“Don’t tell _me_ that,” Andrew shrugs, “I’m just the messenger, dude. Tell it to Wilson.”

“Guess I’ll have to,” Yuuri sighs. He crosses the room to his skate bag. Viktor is talking to another Soviet skater now. They seem to be having an argument in whispers. Yuuri watches surreptitiously as he unpacks his mat. Viktor tosses his hands in the air in defeat, and turns to go. He makes a little face at Yuuri as he leaves. Yuuri doesn’t really know what it means – he only knows that he is sorry to see Viktor go.

“So,” Andrew says, as he appears out of nowhere at Yuuri’s shoulder, “since when have you and Viktor Nikiforov been friends?”

“Uh…since Tokyo, I guess,” Yuuri says.

“Huh,” Andrew says, “that’s cool.”

He moves away again, and goes back to his stretching. Yuuri stands stock still, clutching his mat, and thinking. Andrew clearly had not found it suspicious in the least that he and Viktor had walked in talking, did not seem to care in the slightest that they were on friendly terms. Yuuri does not know what to do with this information, so he files it away for later. For now, he needs to focus on skating.

 

***

 

When dry warm up time is over, the skaters move onto the ice for an hour of practise time. The competitions officially start at ten, which is when group one – Yuuri’s group – is called onto the ice for their official warm up. He leaves his bag sitting beside his seat. Rosie, who has come to watch the days skating, is sitting nearby. Celestino is full of nothing but criticism for Yuuri.

“What the hell was that?” Celestino snaps, as Yuuri comes off the ice. His knee is aching, and his teeth are clenched hard against the vitriol bubbling up in his throat.

“I know, I know,” Yuuri snaps back, and then shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I’m just –”

“Yuuri, there’s a lot riding on this,” Celestino scolds, “we have to keep up appearances, God damn.”

He sucks his teeth, and he seems so genuinely angry that Yuuri shrinks in on himself. The small hard kernel in his soul that constantly pursues excellence is screaming. In this moment he hates himself, hate everything, hates the world around him. At his core, Yuuri is a sore loser.

Celestino sighs, and claps Yuuri on the shoulder.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. He sounds a little as if it pains him to admit this.

“You’re giving me mixed messages, Coach,” Yuuri says, “which side of your two faces am I meant to believe?”

“Don’t be rude,” Celestino grumbles. But if Yuuri is feeling up to teasing, it means he is in a relatively confident mood, and is not likely to let the nerves get to him too badly. Celestino knows when to push him, and when not to, and it seems that today is one of the rare days in which Celestino _can_ push him. When he gets back to his bag and digs through, looking for his towel, he spies a little piece of paper, tucked up against the edge of his spare skate guards. He glances around surreptitiously – Chris must have been past at some point. At least Rosie does not appear to have noticed anything suspicious. She is fiddling with a rubiks cube, seeming totally engrossed. Some way to the right, walking nonchalantly away, is Chris. He is tousling his fluffy blonde hair so it falls just so over his shoulder. Suppressing a smile, Yuuri pretends to dig through his bag, flipping over the paper as he does so.

 

_good luck !!!!_

 

Viktor’s spiky handwriting, quickly scrawled on the back of some random page. Yuuri looks up quickly. Viktor is standing on the other side of the rink, deep in conversation with one of the other skaters next to him, but then he looks across directly at Yuuri and smiles. Yuuri ducks his head. His heart is racing. He tucks the paper deep underneath his skates, and tries to hide his blush.

God damn it. Yuuri came here in pursuit of gold, not Viktor. Theoretically.

He does a terrible job at persuading himself of this.

He wants to win. So for now, for today, no more damn distractions.

He promises Celestino as much, as he stretches one last time. Emil Nekola of Czechoslovakia has taken the ice, but Yuuri does not pay attention to his routine. He retreats into his own head – not always the best place to be, but all the same. _Breathe in_ , taste the gold. _Breathe out_ , remember your routine. _Breathe in_ , land the flip. _Breathe out_ , get that damn axel right.

When he gets off the ice, he takes his water bottle from Celestino with a nod.

“I know,” he says, “don’t say it. I know.”

“What do you know?” Celestino asks.

“It was shit, I know it was,” Yuuri chugs a mouthful of water, and then bites on his lip. He nearly breaks the skin. “I two-footed the Lutz, _again_. _Why_ do I keep doing that?”

Celestino puts his hand on Yuuri’s shoulders, and shakes him gently.

“Yuuri. It was excellent. You kept going. I can guarantee your presentation points will be the highest they’ve ever been. You were on top form.”

Aside from the jumps, he doesn’t say. And sure, sure, Yuuri had skated for Viktor. He’d tried _so hard_ , but his jumps had been messy. Not nearly good enough. And although the judges do score him relatively well – it certainly isn’t high enough to put him in contention for a medal – not unless everyone else’s scores are weighted lower, but they won’t be. Not in favour of the Americans, anyway.

When he leaves the kiss and cry to retrieve his bag and head to warm down, he sees Rosie standing by the edge of the rink. His blood runs cold and his heart stutters with a sudden spike of anxiety. Rosie is standing, one narrow hip cocked, blonde hair falling over shoulder from where she has tied it in a side ponytail. She is holding a piece of paper in her hands, and smiling.

“You dropped this,” she says, and hands it to him. What are her motives? Has she read it? Did it really only fall out of his bag –? He has a glass face. She sees his wariness, and frowns.

“What, do you think I’m going to step you out for having a secret admirer or something?” she asks. She looks hurt.

Um, a little, Yuuri wants to say, but doesn’t. He clears his throat instead, and takes the paper from her drooping hand.

“Did you go through my bag?” he asks instead.

“No, Yuuri,” she snaps, “you dropped it, and I picked it up, okay?” With an angry huff, she turns her back on him and storms away. Yuuri stands, holding the piece of paper and stares after her, completely bemused. Despite himself, he feels bad. He shouldn’t have jumped down her throat or leaped to conclusions, obviously. Now he thinks about it, it’s totally probable that the little fold of paper could have come out when he removed his guards from the bag.

He turns the paper over between his fingers, and tries to find some justification for his irritation. She read the note, clearly – but can he _really_ blame her for that? He wants to, but…he glances up. She has her arms folded, and is leaning up against a metal gate, sipping from a water bottle as she talks to Celestino. Phichit approaches them from the back rooms, says something to Rosie. She grins, and hugs him, and he laughs and hugs her back, and suddenly Yuuri feels lonely.

He turns away, looks out at the ice. Chris’ routine is winding down. Way down the other end of the rink, standing underneath a strategically placed Soviet flag, Viktor is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. His coach is talking to him, and he is nodding as he jumps. Why does he allow Viktor through his boundaries, and not Rosie?

“Having a crisis?” Phichit asks, as he lopes up to Yuuri’s side and sees where his gaze has caught.

“Mmn.”

“An existential one, or a gay one?”

“Both, probably,” Yuuri sighs.

“Fair enough,” Phichit shoves his hands into his pockets. Yuuri glances across at him. His gaze has shifted, dark brown eyes focusing on Chris as he goes into his final spin, the music building to the final crescendo.

“Does it every freak you out,” he says conversationally, “how _sexual_ Chris is? Like, dude, look at the ice. It looks _wet_.”

“I hate to break it to you Phichit, but ice is frozen water,” Yuuri says. Phichit snorts.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Fuck off, Watson.”

“You wound me,” Phichit says, and pretends that he has been shot in the chest. Yuuri sees what he means though – Chris can be a little full on even in real life, but on the ice he exaggerates it to the nth degree. The ladies seem to love it, though. Chris’ is the last performance of Group One – there will be a brief break whilst the Group Two skaters warm up, and then the competition will start again.

“Good luck,” Yuuri says to Phichit, and touches his friend on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Phichit says. He is distracted now, staring out onto the ice with glazed eyes. He is completely focused on what is to come. Yuuri squints through the light, and looks at Viktor again. Viktor is starting right at him.

“Yuuri!” Celestino calls, “go stretch! Now!”

Yuuri pauses for a moment, before he turns. He wonders how well Viktor can really see him.

‘Good luck,’ he mouths across the ice. Viktor must be able to see him clearly enough, because the smile he shoots Yuuri is radiant.

The announcer calls the warm up, and Viktor and Phichit move towards the ice. Yuuri turns his back, and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I know it's been awhile.  
> This chapter is officially dedicated to Nenya, for her commission, and for designing [ this ](http://paledreamsblackmoths.tumblr.com/post/163696757100/when-yuuri-first-started-skating-six-years-ago)awesome cover!  
> 


	9. eight - geneva

March 23rd 1986 – GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

 

When Viktor skates, there is a letter burning a hole in his pocket. Not literally, of course. His skating costume does not have pockets. But metaphorically, he carries the letter with him.

He has a string of letters. Or – he did. He burned them all after receiving them, lighting them in the sink with a lighter borrowed from Klaudia. Sometimes she would watch him do it. Sometimes, when he couldn’t bear to, she would light them herself.

“You’re pathetic, you know?” she would say, every time. She wouldn’t mean it.

When Viktor was nineteen and she was twenty-three, they had climbed to the roof of the arena, lit a bonfire with the ash of her last cigarette. The smoke curled up to join the smog, blending into the late-afternoon light.

“So that’s the end of that, then?” she had said. Viktor, hugging his knees, had asked her how she had so little hope.

“You’ll understand one day, darling.”

“Don’t patronise me,” he had mumbled.

She had looked across the flames, and sighed.

“No, really,” she had said, “you _will_ understand, one day.”

Now, as he steps onto the podium, bends his head to receive his fifth consecutive World gold, he does understand. He raises his hands. Bites his medal. The gold gives way beneath his teeth.

Next to him, Yuuri is kissing his silver, and laughing.

This is what Klaudia meant when she burned her letters on a summer afternoon: There will come a time when you will see your death coming. There will come a time when you will be caught between fire, and ice. There will come a time when you can no longer have both. There will come a time when you have to choose.

 

***

 

Tonight, Geneva is glittering.

The banquet to close the 1985-86 season is being held in a hotel on the waterfront. The actual hotel in which most of the skaters are staying is not nearly so nice – it is some 15 minutes’ drive away, near the airport and the French border. _This_ hotel is gleaming. The ballroom that has been hired out by the ISU for the event has an entire wall of French doors, closed against the cold, overlooking a little courtyard. The low walls reveal a view of Lac Léman spoiled only by the occasional car driving past.

There are flags hanging on the walls. Chris is holding court beneath the Swiss. He has a glass of champagne hanging from his fingertips, and a group of female skaters hanging off his every word. Viktor, standing beside him, crosses his legs at the ankles, and surveys the room.

International athletes tend to have large entourages. Everywhere Viktor looks, he sees officials. There are more ISU and national skating federation representatives, coaches, and plus-ones milling around making small talk, than there are skaters. Perhaps there will be more people to talk to over by the drinks table. Viktor excuses himself – Chris barely seems to notice – and makes his way around the edge of the room.

He is distracted by the flash of a camera. Press are not allowed into the banquet – not that regular journalists care, and sports journalists are too busy focusing on actual sport – but for a moment Viktor thinks that someone has bent the rules. But then he sees Leo the American skater lower the camera he is holding, and the people he is photographing relax again.

“Let me see!”

“No, you need to let it cook first.”

“ _Cook?_ It’s a photo, not a pie!”

“You know what I mean!”

Viktor watches them with mild interest. There is nothing more exciting to focus on. He doesn’t really keep up with the lower tier skaters, so he doesn’t know the people that Leo is taking photos of. He moves away, collects a glass of champagne from the drinks table. When he turns back, more people have joined the American skaters. He recognises Yuuri’s friend Phichit, who is talking animatedly to a woman who looks vaguely familiar. She isn’t a skater, so Viktor has no idea how he knows her. Maybe she’s an official he bumped into once.

Leo holds up his camera in their direction. Phichit puts one arm around the woman, and then beckons for someone else to join. Yuuri slips out from a knot of people, shaking his head. Viktor is too far away to hear – whatever his protests, Phichit shouts them down. The three of them pose for a photo. Now Viktor knows why the woman on Phichit’s left looks familiar – she is clearly Yuuri’s sister.

Almost without knowing he is doing it, Viktor finds himself drifting closer. He is always on the outskirts of groups, never really included unless he is the focus – but he doesn’t want to be surrounded by groupies and fans and journalists all the time. He just wants to feel like he belongs. Watching this merry group of friends now, Viktor wants so _desperately_ to belong. The champagne in his mouth tastes sour. He glances down at the floor.

“Hey, Viktor!”

“Hmn?” Viktor looks up sharply. Leo has approached him, clutching his camera to his chest and smiling shyly.

“Do you want to take a picture together?” he asks. There is colour high on his cheeks. Phichit and Yuuri are watching them. Viktor nods.

“Sure,” he says, “yes.”

“Great!” Leo hand his camera off to Phichit, and suddenly, Viktor is involved. The group reforms around them, unquestioningly welcoming. There is perhaps some hostility on the periphery, but Viktor tries his best not to notice.

“Do the peace sign,” Phichit tells them.

“Why?” Viktor asks, as Leo obediently makes a ‘V’ with his hand.

“For the kicks,” Phichit says. Warily, Viktor imitates Leo. The camera flashes and whirrs.

“Awesome!” Leo says, bouncing forward to ease the polaroid out. He shakes it back and forth.

“Hey,” Yuuri is standing beside him now. He’s holding a glass of what looks like whiskey.

“Hi,” Viktor replies. Yuuri pushes his fringe out of his eyes, and smiles up at him.

“Congrats on the gold,” he says.

“Congratulations on your silver,” Viktor replies. Yuuri buries his smile in his own glass.

“What are you drinking?” Viktor asks.

“Oh, uh – would you think I’m stupid if I told you it’s only water?”

“Why would that make you stupid?” Viktor asks, nonplussed. “Stupid means you are unintelligent, yes? Or do I not have the word?”  
“Oh, right,” Yuuri frowns, “I guess it’s kind of a colloquialism? In this context, I just meant – would you think I was lame? Uncool?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Viktor’s exclamation of understanding is louder than he means it to be. A few people nearby look over curiously. Viktor hides the fact that he is blushing by taking a hasty sip of champagne. Yuuri takes a breath to say something, but is interrupted by Leo.

“Look, it’s developed,” he says, and shoves the photo underneath Viktor’s nose. The colour is slightly washed out – three figures standing in a crowded room. Leo and Yuuri are grinning. Viktor takes the photo and holds it closer to his nose. He looks a little startled, a little unsure – but even he can recognise the small smile on his face as being genuine.

“Do you want to keep it?” Leo asks.

“Yes,” Viktor says, “please. If you do not mind.”

“Nah, not at all,” Leo hand his camera back to Phichit, “it just means we’ll have to take another one together!”

*******

It is not long before Yakov comes to find him. He looms nearby, gesturing until Viktor sighs and goes to join him. Viktor starts to turn his head as he walks away from the group, but then stops. He must keep up appearances, after all.

“You should not spend so much time socialising with Americans,” Yakov says sharply.

“What, you want me to speak only to Russians? After the _World_ figure skating championships?” Viktor’s tone is acerbic. Yakov glances sideways at him, frowning.

“Ideally, yes.”

“But that’s so _boring_!” Viktor protests. “All of this is _so_ boring! You know I like to talk to people, Yakov. Why are you trying so hard to make me sad?”

“Psh,” Yakov snorts, “you know I only want what is best for you, Vitya.”

“Yes, I too think homogeneity is what is best for everyone in the world. Stick with your own kind, no others allowed.”

Yakov turns fully to face Viktor, eyes wide with surprise. Perhaps Viktor’s tone had been a little _too_ vitriolic.

“Who has taught you to say this?” Yakov asks.

“No one has _taught_ me, Yakov,” Viktor says. They have come to a stop on the edge of the dancefloor. Viktor shifts his weight from foot to foot restlessly. The glass in his hand is empty, and he has to fight the urge to smash it against the floor. Not for any reason – just because he wants to do something dramatic. He is tired of being still, being calm, being placid.

“No,” Yakov says quietly, “I suppose not. But remember, Vitya – what you read at home has no place being discussed in public.”

Viktor isn’t surprised that Yakov knows Viktor is a voracious reader of whatever samizdat he can get his hands on (not for any particular political reason, but because he is interested. He likes to learn. He likes to _know_.), but he _is_ surprised that Yakov would mention it. It is probably a warning. Viktor chooses to ignore it.

“Public, yes,” he waves a hand around the room, “public in a different country. Nobody here _cares_ , Yakov!”

“And you don’t care either,” Yakov’s voice is low. He takes Viktor’s forearm and squeezes hard. “But you _should_!”

“Message received,” Viktor snaps. He pulls his arm from Yakov’s grip, hard, and spins away. Yakov calls his name sharply, but Viktor ignores him. He pushes his way through the crowd, deciding that he is in search of another drink. He needs something to dull his edges. They are starting to break through his skin.

The drinks table has been restocked.

“Champagne?” the bartender asks politely.

“Something stronger, please,” Viktor replies.

“What would you like? We have –”

“Vodka, just – give me Vodka. Anything. I don’t care. I’ll take it neat.”

The bartender pours Viktor a generous glass, and hands it over without speaking. Viktor downs it in one, and holds it out for more. How he _loves_ the open bars at these sorts of events.

His second glass, he takes much slower. He moves away, comes to stand underneath the Australian flag, and looks out at the room. He is reminded of the various state affairs he has been attending for years in various Soviet cities. Well-dressed people milling around in rooms, pretending to be important. The only real differences are aesthetic – the hotel ballroom in Geneva is much more sumptuously decorated, the people are dressed better, and the alcohol is fancier. The energy in the room is shifting and changing, ebbing and flowing.

The cluster of younger skaters holding court in the centre of the room are buzzing with excitement and intoxication, discussing their skates, the room, the city. Around the edges, coaches and officials mingle.

It is the same here as anywhere. Just people and alcohol and sports politics, but no change. Nothing radical. Just the same old glitter and window dressing.

Later, he will sneak out of his hotel room. Later, he will meet up with other Soviet skaters, hail a taxi, head to the outskirts of Geneva. Later, he will be free, for a heartbeat or two. But for now, he is stuck here, and he is chafing at the bit. He wants to be _reckless_.

Viktor drinks the rest of his Vodka in two quick gulps. There is a cough behind him.

“Feeling a little rough?” a familiar voice says. Viktor turns guiltily. Phichit is standing behind him, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his dress pants.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about” Viktor says innocently.

“Sure,” Phichit winks. He raises his own glass of clear golden liquid – whiskey, perhaps, or rum – and takes a deep gulp. He does not break eye contact with Viktor.

“Alright,” Viktor says curtly, “I take your point.”

“Oh, I’m not judging you,” Phichit says, “this is supposed to be a celebratory event, or whatever. Drink away!”

“It’s not really a celebratory drink,” Viktor starts to explain, but then stops. He doesn’t owe this man an explanation. Phichit doesn’t seem to expect one. He steps up beside Viktor, and looks out across the room. He drums his index finger against the rim of his glass.

“What’s another World title, right?” he says quietly.

“No – it’s not like that,” Viktor sighs. He looks at the empty glass in his hands, turns it around and around.

“So what is it like, then?” Phichit asks. He is genuinely interested, but Viktor is still wary around him. Phichit sees this and frowns slightly.

“Hey, look,” he messes up his hair, guard and voice lowered, “I’m like, a big fan, you know? Like, that triple flip is legendary. I’ve been practising on the rink at home but I just don’t know how you _do_ it!”

“You want to know how I do the triple flip?”

“Well, totally, but maybe not right now. I guess I just thought you looked kinda lonely, so I figured I’d come and talk to you.”

Phichit’s honesty is disarming. Are all Americans like this?

When Viktor asks him this, Phichit laughs.

“Nah, not all of them,” he says.

“You are not one of ‘them’?” Viktor asks. Phichit screws up his mouth wryly.

“You picked up on that, huh?”

Viktor has a homing beacon for ‘otherness’. He does not tell this to Phichit.

“Sure, well,” Phichit folds his arms and looks out across the ballroom. His gaze lands on three blonde skaters nearby, who all have little American flag badges pinned to their lapels. His mouth twists into a wry smile.

“My family left Thailand in ’73, when I was nine,” he says, “that was during Vietnam. Since we were allied with the US and all, it was easier than it might have been. No defections necessary.”

“Ha.” Viktor’s stomach twists painfully in sudden panic.

“Sorry,” Phichit snorts, “I just meant – you know. I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Anyway, my parents were pretty well off, so they were able to get visas and citizenship and pay for me to go to college and stuff.”

“Do you miss Thailand?” Viktor asks. Phichit hums and scuffs his foot against the ground.

“Yeah,” he says, “like – don’t get me wrong. I’ve had so many great opportunities in the US that I never would have had if we’d stayed in Bangkok. Like, I probably would never have got into skating. I would never be here.” He gestures around the ballroom.

“But, y’know. Thailand is my home. I have this – nah. Never mind.” He shakes his head. Viktor doesn’t press him for whatever he had been about to say. It’s interesting through, hearing his story. Having heard him speak, his flawless American accent, his comfortable use of slang and familiarity with American customs…

“I thought you were maybe second generation,” Viktor says, “which is why I asked. You are so very… American.”

This makes Phichit laugh.

“Ah, well,” he says, “I ain’t mad about it. But hey, while I’ve got you here – can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Viktor is expecting questions about his skate, or even his past. What he doesn’t anticipate is Phichit pulling a notebook out of his pocket, fixing him with a level stare, and asking: “What are your thoughts on the conflict in Afghanistan?”

 

***

A lot can happen in one night. Viktor knows this only too well. A life can change. One life can end; another can be reborn.

Sometimes he wonders if this is because he is Russian. When he looks at his life, he sees it as if from his deathbed. What is his life worth? What has he done, accomplished? Who has he been? What is the weight of his heart?

There is an ancient Egyptian myth which he has read about. After death, the god Anubis takes your heart and weighs it against a feather. If the weight of a heart is found to be wanting, it is devoured.

Viktor read this story when he was fifteen years old. He read it in French, in a book left in a waiting room in Paris. He had pulled a muscle in his back during his exhibition skate, and the pain had been excruciating. The words had been a distraction, allowed because his health and future successes were, in that moment, far more valuable than what may or may not be forbidden literature.

He thinks of that story often. Sometimes he wonders if he is not already in that other, heavenly waiting room, looking back. Watching as his heart sinks lower and lower.

Viktor is not always this maudlin when he drinks. Usually it makes him lighter, happier. Everything is funnier, easier to bear. When Viktor is drunk, he can pretend that the world doesn’t matter. But today, his drug of choice is doing little to alleviate the weight of a life lived half in shadow, half in the blinding spotlight.

How long has he been standing here in the bathroom for? Viktor cups his hand under the cold water, and splashes it against his face. It is not cold enough. He cups both his hands this time, and lowers his face into them. Is it possible to drown in a millimetre of water?

The bathroom door opens. Viktor raises his face, sopping wet, and takes a deep breath. Yuuri is hovering in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise. His tie is loose.

He clears his throat.

“Hi,” he says.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. He wonders what Yuuri sees in his face, as the bathroom door swings shut and Yuuri approaches cautiously. Viktor does not miss the way Yuuri glances left and right – he is checking to see that the bathroom is empty. This makes Viktor angry, for the same reason that everything about this makes him angry. It isn’t _fair_ , none of this is _fair_! He crushes the anger, shoves it down deep. Maybe one day it will surface. Maybe not.

“Are you alright?” Yuuri asks. His hands twitch at his sides.

 _Please touch me_ , Viktor thinks, _please, God, touch me_.

“Ah, I was just, you know,” Viktor shrugs.

“Washing your face?” Yuuri suggests. He smiles, like he is trying to make a joke, but his tone is serious.

“Mmn. Something like that,” Viktor agrees.

“Can I –” Yuuri says. Stops.

“Can you?” Viktor prompts. _Please, God, touch me_.

“Um,” Yuuri looks at the ground, shifts his weight, glances back up at Viktor from beneath his lashes, “I don’t think the men’s bathroom is exactly the most romantic place in the world, but –”

Viktor kisses him.

Yuuri reaches up immediately to cradle Viktor’s face in his hands as he opens his mouth, pliant. Viktor holds Yuuri around the waist, one hand splayed against his back. This is dangerous. It makes Viktor feel alive.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Yuuri mumbles against his mouth.

“Yes, sure, yes,” Viktor says, and kisses him again. Yuuri makes a little growling noise, and pushes him back until he hits the wall. Viktor does not expect the impact of cold tiles against his back, and breaks the kiss to swear in surprise. Yuuri raises his eyebrows. Suddenly, Viktor wants to laugh.

“Can you believe?” he says, “here we are! You won silver at the Worlds! And here we are, at the banquet yet again!”

“Yes,” Yuuri says. He pushes Viktor hair out of his eyes. He is smiling so widely – there are crinkles at the edges of his eyes when he grins. Viktor has never noticed them before. There are so many things he has no noticed, does not know, does not know _how_ to know. The giddiness starts to give way to panic. Yuuri must see something of this in his eyes, because he presses his palms flat against Viktor’s chest, and keeps talking.

“I know,” he says. His face is so close. Viktor could count his eyelashes. “It’s – I still can’t believe it!”

“You nearly beat me, you know,” Viktor says. He laughs too, not because it’s funny, but because Yuuri is laughing, and he is warm and close and the reckless edge in his blood is singing even as he wavers back and forth between panic and euphoria.

“Nah,” Yuuri shrugs and ducks his head, “you were so far ahead of me.”

“Ah, it’s not points,” Viktor says, “in terms of skill, you’re so close.”

“Imagine if I did beat you,” Yuuri says it with a snort, like it’s impossible. It is not impossible. Viktor is realistic about his skating abilities – he knows that he is the best, and the best sometimes by a wide margin. Yuuri is not quite as good as him – but he could be. God, he could be. If it were anyone else, it would give Viktor a competitive drive, make him edgy and uncomfortable, drive him to the rink at all hours to train and train until he is certain of his own dominance. Never has been more tempted, here and now, to not care. To step back. To let Yuuri take his glory.

It is a thought which makes him uncomfortable in its honesty. He pushes it away by dipping his head forward and kissing Yuuri again. Yuuri opens up to him, relaxing back to let Viktor press closer.

“I still haven’t got used to this yet,” Yuuri confesses, in the breath between kisses.

“Got used to what?”

“You,” Yuuri says.

The door in the corridor rattles, and Viktor and Yuuri spring apart. Yuuri hits an inconvenient rubbish bin with the back of his knees and nearly falls over, clutching the sink to keep himself upright. The door to the bathroom opens.

Otabek Altin surveys them as he enters. Viktor, who is red-faced and struggling to keep his balance, nods at him. Otabek raises his eyebrows, and nods back.

Yuuri, biting his lip, starts retreating towards the door. As soon as Otabek’s back is turned, he slips away. Viktor follows him. Once in the relative safety of the corridor, they both burst into laughter.

“Do you know him?” Yuuri asks.

“A little,” Viktor leans back against the cool tiled wall, “he is Soviet skater, but Kazakh. He trains in Moscow, I think.”

“Is he any good?”

“Don’t know,” Viktor shrugs, “I’ve never really seen him skate. I only really watch the performances of people that I care about.”

“Oh,” Yuuri frowns. He is looking into the middle-distance, chewing over thoughts. Viktor wonders if he will decide to say them.

“You’re going to Chris’?” he asks instead.

“Yes. I wouldn’t miss it. Are you?”

“Dunno,” Yuuri shuffles his feet, “I don’t really like parties.”

“Really,” Viktor does not deliver it like a question. He is thinking of Tokyo, the way that Yuuri _moved_.

“Ha,” Yuuri is clearly thinking of the same thing. His eyes are lingering on Viktor’s hands again. “Yeah. Well. I, uh, am not very good when I’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all. You were very…good, last time we were together.”

“Ha,” Yuuri says again. His cheeks are red, but he meets Viktor’s eye boldly. “How are you going to get there?”

Viktor his head to the side, and winks. “It will require some skill, getting out of the hotel, but I’ve done it before. Chris throws legendary parties.”

Yuuri wavers for a second, and then smiles.

“Well,” he says, “um. Do you want to go together, then?”

“Like a date?” Viktor can’t help but tease.

“Something like that,” Yuuri says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Viktor thinks he can see them shaking. He steps across the hallways until he is standing right in front of Yuuri, and holds his own hands out.

“What do you think?” he says, “should we leave _this_ party?”

“I think so,” Yuuri says. He takes Viktor’s hands, and then leads the way. Instead of leaving through the main ballroom, he opens the door to the service corridor and sticks his head out.

“We always seem to be leaving things the back way,” Viktor complains, as Yuuri leads him down the empty hallway. The fluorescent lights are buzzing, their footsteps muffled by the thick cream carpet.

“Well,” Yuuri says absently, as he nudges open another door, “you know why.”

Yes. Viktor does know why. It makes his stomach drop even thinking about it. He tightens his grip on Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri squeezes back.

Yuuri seems to have a natural talent for navigation. He leads them out into the lobby. Viktor automatically drops his hand when they step into the bright light, and he does not miss the hurt that flashes across Yuuri’s face.

“Sorry,” Viktor says quickly, “It’s just –”

“I know,” Yuuri says. Viktor follows him to the counter, stays quiet as the concierge calls them a taxi. Neither or them speak as they slip out into the darkness to wait for their taxi on the edge of the road.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says again.

“Viktor,” Yuuri’s voice is soft as he turns, “I _know_. I understand.”

A deep, dark part of Viktor wonders if Yuuri will ever understand. If the man raised on freedom would ever know what it feels like to rail against the night. But Yuuri’s breath stutters and his hands shake as he pulls closer to Viktor, and he knows that Yuuri can. Yuuri does.

Chris has complained to him of Yuuri’s woeful lack of political awareness, but in their letter exchanges over the last few months, Yuuri has been learning. But it is not all about the politics anyway, not all about the ice. There are things that are more important in life, Viktor thinks, as he holds Yuuri’s hips and pulls him closer for a kiss. Things like love. Freedom. Happiness.

When the taxi arrives, Viktor gives the driver Chris’ address. His house is in Collonge-Bellerive in the suburbs of Geneva, some 30 minutes’ drive away from the hotel. They drive along the lake-side. Viktor gazes out at the lights reflected on the water.

“It’s a pretty view,” Yuuri slides alongside him to peer out of the window. He touches a finger to the glass.

“How far away is France?”

“Geneva is a…how do you call it? Like when there is water on three sides?”

“A peninsula?”

“Yes. A peninsula of Switzerland, surrounded by France.”

“Huh,” Yuuri cranes to look out of both windows, as if he will see some sign announcing: ‘Here is France’. It would be so easy to tell the driver to take them to the border. To slip across, unnoticed. To drive until dawn, further and further away from Russia, from everything. But Viktor just doesn’t have the _energy_. Right now, it is easier to slip his hand into Yuuri’s, to watch the way Yuuri keeps glancing at him.

A much quieter sort of rebellion.

Chris’ street is quiet. Lined with tall hedges, the houses are all set well back from the road. Glimpses of light glimmer as they pass. A frost has fallen, and the leaves gleam silver in the flash of the headlights.

“It’s this next one on the left,” Viktor tells the driver, “you can just stop here, it’s alright.”

Yuuri pays.

“One day I will pay you back,” Viktor says.

“For what?” Yuuri laughs, “a cab fare? I really don’t care.”

“I do,” Viktor says. Yuuri is quiet. They are standing on the side of the road, on a silent street. Behind them, a set of black gates.

“I guess Chris won’t be here yet,” Yuuri says.

“No,” Viktor hums, “he is always the last to leave a party. Although – it cannot be too long from ending.”

Yuuri moves towards a streetlight, squinting down at his watch.

“It’s nearly eleven!” he says in surprise.

“Is it?” Viktor says absently. Yuuri snuggles down into his suit jacket, and shivers.

“It’s cold,” he says, “we’re both stupid. None of us thought to bring a jacket.”

“It’s fine, I can keep you warm.” Viktor holds his arms out to Yuuri, not without some nervousness. They have come far enough now, done enough, become enough. But he worries about putting himself out there. Yuuri is a cautious sort – and so is Viktor, of course, he has to be. But not tonight, of all nights. The only night in which they may take some time out of time.

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate. He steps into Viktor’s embrace, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s waist and pressing his face close to his chest. Viktor holds Yuuri close and looks up at the stars.

It is certainly warmer this way. It is a cold spring night, but here on the side of the road, holding Yuuri in his arms, Viktor could almost forget that there are still remnants of snow on the ground.

“Is it like this?” Viktor asks him, some time later.

Yuuri, out of breath, replies with a wordless ‘hmmn?’

“Out here,” Viktor repeats, “is it always like this?”

“Out here as in, outside Chris’ gate, out here as in Switzerland, what?”

“Out here in the rest of the world.”

“Oh,” Yuuri’s lips part over an exhalation. He frowns.

“Is it really that bad?” he asks, “in Russia, I mean.”

“You’ve been there. You tell me.”

“But it must be different for you,” Yuuri insists. He moves away a little, tucks his hands into his pockets. Viktor feels their absence. “It’s your home, it’s all you’ve ever known.”

“True,” Viktor says, “but that doesn’t mean – oh, forget it.”

He runs his hands through his hair. There is a noise from behind them – a door opening in the distance, footsteps. The gate swings inwards.

“You two can come in you know.” It is Chris’ housekeeper. Slim, grey-haired, in her early sixties. She is smiling as she holds the gate open and beckons for them to pass.

“Christophe will be here soon. He has phoned ahead and told me to let you in.”

“Ah,” Yuuri is blushing. Viktor knows he is. He can’t see Yuuri’s face, but he is _sure_ that Yuuri is blushing. Of course Chris knew that they left together. How Chris manages to be aware of so many things at once – especially things which happen outside of his line of sight –  really is beyond Viktor’s comprehension.

The inside of Chris’ house is spacious and modern. Viktor has been here before of course, but he watches with interest as Yuuri looks around with wide eyes.

“How does Chris _afford_ this?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” Viktor takes off his jacket and hangs it on the convenient coat rack beside the door, “he has some endorsements, I think.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuuri mutters, “so do I, and I could _never_ afford this kind of place!”

“Really?” Viktor moves to the couch and sits down. Yuuri follows suit. “What kind of house do you have?”  
“Uh,” for some reason, this makes Yuuri blush. He shifts awkwardly, leaning up against the back of the sofa and avoiding eye contact.

“Well,” he says, “the truth is, I don’t actually, um, have a place.”

“Where do you live then?” Viktor frowns.

“I’m in college, so I live in a dorm with Phichit during the semester. In the holidays I, uh, still live with my parents.” He looks at the ground as he says this.

“Why do you say this like you are ashamed?” Viktor asks, genuinely curious.

“Oh, it’s just, you know,” Yuuri shrugs his shoulders up and down, and up again. “I guess I feel a bit stupid admitting it, that I live with my parents, like – Chris has this super sick house, and I can’t even afford my own apartment.”

“It is nothing bad to still live with your parents,” Viktor assures him, “many people in Russia live with their parents all their lives. Families are like this.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“Ah…no,” Viktor shakes his head. He should have seen this coming. He doesn’t want to talk about his family, but he so desperately wants to know about Yuuri’s. Clearly, he has both parents, clearly they all love each other, if they are willing to stay together. Maybe he won’t understand. Maybe he will think less of Viktor…

Yuuri frowns slightly, and opens his mouth to ask a question. Viktor tenses slightly. Before Yuuri can speak, however, the front door opens, and several merry voices flood into the air. They are all speaking German.

Yuuri and Viktor both leap to their feet, as Chris and his entourage walk in.

“Ah, Viktor!” Chris calls, “and Yuuri too, I see…interesting.” He winks at them both. Viktor tries not to blush. Chris can be lewd, but Viktor and Yuuri have done nothing to warrant such teasing – unless perhaps leaving early and being the first to arrive is worthy of being teased over. Which clearly, to Chris, it is.

His partner Matthias is with him, along with his sister Genevieve and a man who Viktor does not know. They all remove their coats, and Chris makes quick introductions before disappearing into the kitchen to start preparing drinks.

“So many people are coming!” he calls, speaking in English for the benefit, presumably, of Yuuri alone. “Although they will not be here until later! Especially not the ones who have to sneak here!”

Genevieve sidles over to Yuuri, and introduces herself. She has almost a foot on Yuuri, and her masses of auburn hair make her seem even taller.

“Congratulations on your medal!” she tells Yuuri, with a flutter of her eyelashes, “and you too, Viktor, of course.” She adds as an afterthought. She has long since given up on flirting with him. It makes Viktor uncomfortable, watching her flirt so blatantly with Yuuri. Interestingly, Yuuri does not seem to be aware of it.

“Thanks,” he says, and smiles politely. “Sorry, but who are you?”

“Oh, of course!” Genevieve smacks her forehead dramatically, “I am Genevieve Giacometti.”  
“Oh, Chris’ sister?”

“Yes – his much more attractive sister. I am clearly the best-looking one in the family.”

“Don’t let Chris catch you saying that,” Viktor interjects. He puts his arm around Yuuri’s waist as he talks. Genevieve sees this, and her eyes widen in surprise. Yuuri, too, is surprised – he glances up at Viktor inquisitively. But he does not move away, thank God.

“Oh, I could take him easily in a fight,” Genevieve says, “which he knows, of course.”

“You absolutely could _not_ ,” Chris says as he re-enters the room, carrying an armful of drinks. His eyes, too, alight on Viktor’s arm around Yuuri, but for once in his life he does not comment.

“You forget, my darling caneton, that I am in fact an international standard athlete, and could quite easily crush you.”

“And _you_ forget that, as your elder sister, I am clearly the dominant member of the family.” Genevieve drifts away from them both, continuing to argue with Chris even as she helps him set up a drinks table.

“Interesting development,” Yuuri says quietly.

“Sorry,” Viktor says, withdrawing his arm hastily, “I just – she was flirting with you, and I – I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Yuuri says, “I, um. I liked it.”

“I’m glad,” Viktor says, with a soft smile. He does not add that he did it because he knew he could, because he knows that Genevieve would not care, Chris and Matthias would not care. There people know him as well as any non-Russian could. Know his preferences, know his secrets.

When there are more people, they will not be able to be as blatant. But still – they are here. Away from watchful eyes. Yuuri leans up on his toes, and brushes his lips against Viktor’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“What for?”

But Yuuri is gone, stepping away to take a drink from Chris, to offer his help in the last of the setting up. Viktor watches him go, heart twisting with a strange mix of pride and desolation. If he were to die now, Viktor would not pass the test. His heart weighs far, far too much.

 

***

 

Sometimes, it is too much. When he is vulnerable – when he is drunk – Viktor loses control over his emotions. Things which he likes to keep tamped down rise to the surface. So he drinks more to keep them down, keep himself numb, and then he wakes up in the morning with a headache and regrets.

The party is too loud. There are not so many people, really, but they all want a little bit of Viktor’s time and attention. He has given too much of himself, tonight. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be here. Something inside him is resonating darkly. He excuses himself, and slides away towards the back of the room. Hidden behind a curtain are a set of French doors leading out onto the wrap-around balcony. The smokers will discover it later, but for now it is thankfully devoid of people.

Viktor stands at the edge, and looks out towards Lac Léman. It is invisible in the velvet night. Viktor loses track of the time as he stands, staring out at nothing. He is startled from his reverie only when the door slides open, and someone steps out.

“Are you alright?” it’s Chris. He comes to stand beside Viktor against the railings.

“No. Yes. I suppose. But I don’t know,” Viktor leans over the edge. It he could stretch his arms just a little bit further, he could touch the tops of the evergreen trees. Chris’ eyes are hidden in the gloom.

“What don’t you know?” he asks.

“Oh, lots of things. The square root of 6946. The capital city of Ghana. What it’s like to not be afraid.”

“The square root 6946 is 83,” Chris says, “and as for Ghana, and I don’t know. Addis Ababa, maybe.”

“No, that’s Ethiopia,” Viktor corrects. Chris just shrugs.

Viktor, leaning over the railings, recalls what it feels like to fly. When he was a young child, picking up speed on the ice for the first time, he discovered this truth. Moving fast across the ice feels like flying. It is weightlessness and breathlessness and freedom. Every time he steps off the ice and pastes on a smile, he yearns to go back. To loop around the ice one last time.

He could fly here, too. He can almost believe it. If he moved that little bit further, he could step off the balcony and drift across the treetops towards the glow of Geneva in the distance. Maybe he could find a house there, find a rink, find friends and lovers. He would read the newspapers in French and in English. He could learn German.

But he will not. He will, instead, go home to Leningrad, where he will have to stand in line for bread.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he confesses to Chris.

“Do what?”

Chris is not stupid – he knows that Viktor is saying He is merely looking for clarification. Viktor looks up at the stars.

“This. Everything.”

“Are you going to quit skating?”

“What? No,” Viktor shakes his head, “it’s all I have. It’s more what will come when I finally retire that I – Mmh. I don’t want to think about it.”

But he does think about it, all the same. It’s all he _can_ think about, sometimes. Finding a nine to five job like his mother. Maybe becoming like Yakov, teaching new skaters to follow the rules and do as their told and always, _always_ , to bring glory to the Soviet Union. He doesn’t want glory anymore. But he doesn’t know how to live without it.

“I want to defect,” he says.

Chris takes a breath. It is loud in the sudden silence.

“I know,” he says, and it is so unexpected that Viktor finally turns to face him. He is standing, arms at his sides. His hair is blowing around his collar, softly backlit. His face is in shadow.

“You do?” Viktor whispers.

“I’ve known for a while now,” Chris says, “but can I ask…why now?”

“I…” Viktor swallows, and glances over his shoulder. Inside the condo, skaters and their friends and families are milling around. He can see Theo and Mickey drinking frothing-over beer and laughing, a few Canadian skaters he doesn’t know…from behind them emerges Yuuri. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his face bright, his smile warm as he laughs and jokes with his friend Phichit. He does not look at the window. Viktor feels him like a punch to the stomach, like the impact of body against boards. His breath has been knocked completely out of him.

Chris turns, and follows his gaze.

“Ah,” he says, “because of Yuuri.”

“Yes, no,” Viktor says. He spins away from Chris and flops down into one of the uncomfortable metal chairs that Chris keeps on his balcony. It is covered in a light dusting of frost, which dampens Viktor’s pants immediately.

“I want to go to America,” Viktor continues, “and I think Yuuri can help me.”

“A means to an end?” Chris asks bluntly. Viktor opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, the sliding door onto the balcony squeaks. A figure squeezes out, and turns to face Viktor.

“Think very carefully before you respond,” she says, “because if I hear you say that you’re only using my brother for your own gain, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Sorry,” Chris steps forward, “but who are you?”

“Mari Katsuki,” she says, and holds her hand out for Chris to shake. Instead, he bows over her hand and kisses it. Mari looks flattered for a moment, but then clears her throat. Chris releases her hand with the ghost of a wink.

“Christophe Giacommeti,” he says, “and my morose friend over here is Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Uh, I know,” Mari says.

“If I can just ask,” Chris says politely, even as he carefully manoeuvres himself so he is standing in between Mari and Viktor, who has gotten to his feet. “How did you come by an invitation to my little party?”

“Oh, Yuuri invited me,” Mari says, “since I came to Geneva to watch him, and all. Although, I had to come with Phichit, since Yuuri skipped out on the banquet and all.”

“I see,” Chris looks at her appraisingly, “and how are you finding the party so far?”

“Uh, it’s fun,” Mari says impatiently, “but my question still stands, Mr Nikiforov. He,” she tips her head towards Chris, “said that you saw Yuuri as a means to an end.”

“He was asking,” Viktor says, and holds out his hand for Mari to shake, “whether I do or do not. And answer is, I do not.”

That is to say – Yuuri is a means to an end. But he is so much more.

“Look,” Mari sighs, “I don’t want to, like, police my little brothers love life, or whatever. That would just be weird. But this is a high stakes game he’s playing, so I gotta check – are you a spy?”

Chris makes a choking sound. Viktor glares at him as he coughs.

“Don’t mind me!” Chris wheezes, and retreats several steps for gasp for breath a little further out of earshot.

“No,” Viktor assures her, “I am not a spy.”

“Okay,” Mari says, “are you trying to persuade Yuuri to become a spy?”

“What – no!” the idea is so absurd that Viktor laughs. Mari glowers at him.

“Well, alright,” she says, “but if you don’t mind, I would like an explanation about the ‘means to an end’ statement.”

“To be quite fair,” Chris says coolly, “seeing as you were eavesdropping, I’m not entirely sure we owe you one.”

“Don’t, Chris,” Viktor warns, in French.

“She’s right,” Chris continues, “this is high stakes!”

“I can speak French too, you idiots,” Mari snaps. Chris blinks, then shuts his mouth and inclines his head.

“Sorry,” he says, “but – Viktor?”

“You know who I am, yes?” Viktor asks Mari, who snorts.

“I think we established that I do.”

“Good. Then you know I am hero of Soviet Union, well renowned, five World titles as of today.”

“And absolutely not at _all_ vain,” Mari interjects. Chris laughs. Viktor ignores him.

“Yes,” Viktor says, “I am also going to defect to United States.”

Mari’s mouth falls open. There is a beat of silence. Then she closes her mouth with a snap.

“Any more bombshells?” she asks.

“Um,” Viktor glances inside again. The tableau has shifted. He cannot see Yuuri. “I am also gay.”

“Right,” Mari sounds strangled, “well, I’d figured that one out for myself.”

“Good,” Viktor says. There is another brief silence, and then Mari sighs. Her shoulders slump, and she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Do you have any sort of plan in place?” she asks, “for running away from the Reds?”

“No,” Viktor shrugs, “it’s all – I just. No plan. Not yet.”

“Other than Yuuri,” Mari says.

“Well,” Viktor turns away and looks back over the lake again. Now that he has confessed, finally given voice to the desire that has been building, he feels weightless. It will not last.

“He is what made me realise, I think. I can never be in Russia what I could be anywhere else.”

“Well, if you’re going to tangle us all up in this, you better make sure you’re not doing this only for selfish reasons.”

“If he’ll have me, I’ll do anything – wait, you said ‘all up’? Who is all?”

“Look,” Mari smiles at him then, “if my brother likes you and you like him, then I guess that makes you family. If you want to defect, we’ll help you. All of us.” She looks at Chris as she this, challenging him. He holds up his palms, and nods.

“Of course,” he murmurs.

There is a commotion from inside. Someone calls Mari’s name.

“Just, I don’t know. Let us know when you have a plan, or whatever,” she says as she turns to go. She closes the door behind her, and there is silence on the balcony once more. Chris and Viktor stand still for a long moment, just staring at each other.

“Well,” Chris says eventually, “it is always good to know you have allies.”

Viktor starts laughing then, and then finds he can’t stop. He is laughing and laughing, happy and afraid, and gasping for breath. When his breath eventually catches, Chris is there. He claps a hand to Viktor’s shoulder, then pulls him close.

“Be careful,” he says, “Viktor, whatever you do, you must be careful.”

“I know,” Viktor whispers.

“And – it may not be as easy as you think. To leave Russia behind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I – ah,” Chris moves back. His face is very tired. Suddenly, he looks old. He is only Viktor’s age, 25. But 25 years can be a long time.

“When Matthias left,” he says, “he also left a part of himself behind. He walked away from his family and his home, and I know that he sometimes regrets it. He will not be whole again until that wall comes down. Remember that, Viktor. Once you leave, you cannot go back.”

“I know,” Viktor says.

“Do you?” Chris’ eyes scan across Viktor’s face. He purses his lips, inclines his head, steps back and slips inside without a word. He has always been good at dramatic exits. Viktor steeples his fingers together underneath his chin as he turns again to face the water. He has made his decision, announced it to Chris and to Mari, and to himself. He has taken a step from which there is no turning back. But – Chris is right. It will be hard. How much will he have to leave behind?

Happiness burns away in his mouth. It tastes of ash. The desperate edge of sadness is back, and now the last thing he wants is to be alone. Viktor spins on his heel, and re-enters the party. People weave and move around him. Some of them greet him. Viktor smiles and nods, and keeps moving. A rising tide of panic is biting at his throat. He needs to find – where is –

Viktor spots him at last. Yuuri is sitting on the stairs, rolling a bottle of beer between his palms. He looks miserable. Viktor weaves between two ice dancers, needs to get to Yuuri now. Yuuri looks up at his approach, and his face lights up.

“Viktor!” he says, “I thought you left!”

“No,” Viktor says, and finds his mouth is spilling endearments in Russian. He flops down next to Yuuri on the stairs, and with no hesitation Yuuri tips sideways until his head is on Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor wraps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, and holds him close.

“I would never leave,” Viktor says, “not without you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Across the room, Viktor can see Chris. Chris looks between them, dips his head down, and then points upstairs. Viktor takes this for permission, and gets to his feet again. The brief expression of desolate panic which flits across Yuuri’s face is too much for Viktor to bear.

“Will you come up with me?” he asks.

Yuuri nods, and puts his beer down so he can hold his hands out. Viktor pulls him to his feet, pulls him close for a moment. Yuuri smells of alcohol and unfamiliar cologne and, underneath, the clean scent of soap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here is a link to my tumblr!](https://vntya.tumblr.com/about)


	10. nine - geneva

March 24th 1986 – GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

 

Later, when Yuuri comes back upstairs, he carries two cups of water. There’s an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon tucked awkwardly underneath his left arm.

“It’ll have to be the water first,” he jokes as he closes the door with his hip, “because I didn’t have enough hands to bring any more glasses.”

Viktor springs up from the bed, and extricates the champagne. He takes it over to the desk. Yuuri watches him as he walks. He did not bother to put any clothes on whilst Yuuri was downstairs. He is completely shameless – that, or just totally confident in Chris’ ability to keep everyone away from this upstairs bedroom. Yuuri brings him the water.

Viktor downs it in one mouthful. Then he picks up the bottle, and attempts to pop the cork. He’s unsuccessful.

“Sorry,” Yuuri takes it off him, “these things are a pain. I should have thought to get a corkscrew.”

“It’s fine,” Viktor is running a finger almost idly around the rim or his glass. _Almost_ , but not quite. Yuuri can see the look in his eyes. Viktor knows that Yuuri’s gaze is caught by the repetitive motion. He smirks.

When Yuuri eventually gets the bottle open, he pours Viktor’s first. Viktor sniffs it experimentally, and then takes a mouthful. He peers at the glass thoughtfully.

“This is very nice,” he says, “how much did it cost, do you think? Is very expensive?”

“Planning on becoming a wine connoisseur?” Yuuri jokes, grinning at him. “Not that this is technically wine.”

“Oh, maybe,” Viktor says thoughtfully. Yuuri looks askance at him, and he shrugs, not in the least abashed.

“I spend quite a lot of time thinking about what I would like to be,” he explains. “Not jobs, but, uh…hobbies, yes? Things I would like to learn to do.”

“And wine is one of these things?” Yuuri is absolutely intrigued. Personally, he doesn’t much care for alcohol. It tastes bad, and _most_ of his experiences with intoxication have ended rather badly. Plus, the god-awful hangovers he’s prone to lessen the appeal of drinking rather dramatically.

“I think so,” Viktor muses. He picks up the bottle and reads the label. “Chris likes wine. I say it’s because he’s French.”

“He’s Swiss,” Yuuri says.

“Only in the way that you are American,” Viktor says nonsensically. “Is this expensive?” he asks again.

“Er, sort of,” Yuuri finishes his water, and holds his glass out for Viktor to pour, “I don’t know how much it costs exactly, maybe like a hundred bucks? It’s not super cheap. Poor college students like me can’t really afford to casually drink this kind of thing.”

“Huh,” Viktor frowns at the bottle once more, and then puts it down rather gingerly. “I don’t really know brands. Or relative cost of things.”

“I don’t think it really matters,” Yuuri says. He could never drink this stuff at home, but when he is moving in skating circles, he is often reminded of just how _rich_ some of the skaters are. It is not the most lucrative sport, so most competitors tend to be from relatively well-off families – in Western countries, at least. Yuuri heads towards the bed, where he sits cross-legged against the headboard with his glass held loosely in his lap. Viktor snags the bottle in his free hand, and comes to join him.

“Tell me something,” Viktor says, as he curls up beside Yuuri. His body is warm, long and lithe and pale. Yuuri’s eyes are drawn to the dip in his collarbone.

“What kind of things?” he asks absentmindedly.

“Tell me about you,” Viktor props the bottle up by his hip, and then rests his head on his hand. He is doing the finger thing with his glass again. Yuuri could watch Viktor’s hands move all day. He swallows.

“What – what did you want to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Tell me about…” Viktor’s eyes roll upwards to the ceiling as he fetches around for a topic, “your senior debut?”

Fuck. Of course Viktor would accidentally ask to hear about one of Yuuri’s worst memories.

“Oh, God,” Yuuri groans, “it’s not a good story.”

“Is not?” Viktor frowns. “Tell me anyway?”

“Ugh,” Yuuri takes a large mouthful of champagne as fortification. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Viktor the story – telling Viktor anything is a little bit of a dream come true – but these are painful memories even as they’re testament to how far he’s come.

“Well, I was seventeen,” Yuuri begins with a sigh, “and I made my debut at US nationals. I’d been doing okay in the junior circuit, but I was still kind of a nobody. People were kind of surprised I’d managed to score so well in qualifiers.”

“Were _you_?”

“Hmm?”

“Were you surprised that you got good score also?” Viktor clarifies.

“I…don’t know…” Yuuri says slowly, “it’s like. Hard to be objective, I guess? Like, I know intellectually that I’m a good skater, but it doesn’t always feel that way.”

“You see all your own flaws,” Viktor murmurs, and Yuuri nods.

“Yeah! And obviously the point of skating is to be criticised, but I spend so much time focusing on my own flaws anyway that – ah?” Yuuri trails off as Viktor takes his hand. He’s frowning, staring down and tracing the bones in Yuuri’s fingers, looking thoughtful.

“Go on,” he says after a moment, without looking up.

“Well, I fucked it up,” Yuuri neatly summarises the entire traumatic event. “Absolute train wreck. Stuffed all my triples, fell a lot. My figures were shit too. It was awful. Someone, uh. Someone told me that I never should have qualified.”

“What?” Viktor looks up again angrily, “somebody said this to you?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri clears his throat awkwardly, “it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Who was it?” Viktor’s voice is cold. He has stopped fiddling with Yuuri’s hand; his entire body is still.

“I don’t even remember,” Yuuri laughs, a little awkward in the face of Viktor’s unexpected intensity. He remembers the face – pale, brown hair, swaggering confidence – but not the name. “It doesn’t matter. So far as I’m aware, he ended his career before ever even qualifying for Worlds once, so.”

“So, he got his payback anyway,” Viktor finishes. He glances down again, thoughtful. His eyelashes, so pale as to be almost invisible, catch the light. This close, Yuuri can see how long they truly are. They are nearly translucent at the tips.

From downstairs, there is a sudden swell in noise. Someone has put on a new record. Yuuri recognises the refrain, but can’t quite place the song. A woman laughs, loudly. When Viktor glances up again, his face is open, unguarded. This is the face which Yuuri has been watching for years. It is different here, in this light. Softer; both more known, and less.

Yuuri kisses him. They move gently, careful of the champagne bottle resting between them still, as Viktor tips his head back and opens his mouth beneath Yuuri’s, pliant. There is something warm in Yuuri’s chest, something that is somehow both too large and too small, too much to grasp as anything other than a feeling. He pulls back, and Viktor’s eyes slowly flutter open.

“You have pretty eyes,” he says, and then blinks. A blush rises to colour his pale cheeks. “I didn’t mean to say aloud,” he confesses.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “I’m glad you said it.”

“So am I,” Viktor says. This time, he smiles as they kiss. There is no urgency anymore, none of the frantic desire which propelled them to the bed the first time, less than an hour ago. They have claimed each other now, found a home. Now they have time to explore each other. Viktor finishes his glass, and puts the bottle aside on the bedside table.

Viktor’s eyes are not the only part of him that is beautiful. Yuuri’s gaze drifts downwards, and then catches.

“I just had the stupidest thought,” he blurts.

“What?” Viktor goes up on one elbow, a grin on his ridiculous, pretty face. “Tell me!”

“No!” Yuuri yelps, “it’s too embarrassing. You’ll laugh at me!”

“I might,” Viktor admits. He rolls to the side, slightly, so his body is pressed against Yuuri’s. He presses his hand lightly to Yuuri’s cheek, and he swallows. It is loud in the sudden silence.

Shit. _Shit_. He’s so beautiful. Yuuri’s heart thumps, painfully. He feels all weird and wobbly, like jelly. One touch and he’ll shake apart. This is all so new to him, still. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, with his body. In a moment of panic, he can’t respond. Maybe he means to touch Viktor’s cheek, or cup the hand that is pressed to his own. Instead, his fingers close around Viktor’s wrist. Viktor tenses, and Yuuri relaxes his hold.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says slowly. His gaze blurs, wanders from Yuuri’s eyes to his lips. He mumbles something in Russian. The language burrs beautifully against his tongue. Yuuri wants him to speak it between his thighs, but that might be asking a little much for the first night.

“Won’t you tell me?’ Viktor says. “I want you tell me everything.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says quietly, “were you trying to distract me?”

Viktor laughs. The corners of his eyes are lost in crinkles of skin, and there are lines in his cheeks, too. Dimples that Yuri has never seen in the press photographs. Viktor’s fake smile is lovely, but it’s nothing like the real thing.

“Yes,” he says, “did it work? Or did I just make you forget?”

“Um,” Yuuri says. Words have failed him, as they often do. Viktor nudges apart his legs with a knee, and settles down on top of him, lying chest-to-chest. He stays propped on an elbow, to better trace the contours of Yuuri’s cheek.

“I am glad to be here,” he says simply.

“Viktor, I’m glad to be here too.”

“God,” Viktor says, “now will you tell me what your stupid thought was?”

“Argh!” Yuuri shoves him off, rolls over until his face is pressed against the crumpled duvet. Viktor’s laughter shakes the bed.

“I will never tell you,” Yuuri says, “it was absolutely ridiculous and totally embarrassing”

“Never is a long time,” Viktor pouts.

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri insists. He lifts his head and smiles, to soften the blow. Being naked with Viktor is one thing. Having _sex_ with Viktor is another thing entirely. But telling him that his dick is pretty is absolutely not anything that Yuuri will _ever_ do. Under any condition. He may, however, confess it to Phichit. Later.

“Hmm,” Viktor frowns, and glances about the room. He taps a finger to his lips in devious thought, and his eyes cut across to Yuuri’s. A smile tugs the corner of his mouth up into a gentle curl. Deep in Yuuri’s stomach, something twists, hungry. He is aware of the feel of his clothes against his skin – and aware, too, of the fact that Viktor is still naked. Viktor turns sideways, and pours himself another glass of champagne. The rim of the bottle clinks against the crystal. It seems almost too loud.

“I think we are unequal here,” Viktor says as he turns back around. He hands the glass to Yuuri. “Hold this.”

Yuuri takes the glass, but does not take a sip. Without breaking eye contact – his eyes are so _blue_ – Viktor’s lithe fingers make short of work of Yuuri’s hastily buttoned shirt. He takes the glass back only so Yuuri can shrug it off his shoulders, then Viktor is undoing his pants and tugging them over his feet.

“Much better, no?” he says.

“No. Yes, I mean. Um,” Yuuri manages, articulately. He is still holding the champagne glass, which he offers wordlessly to Viktor.

“What if I do this?” Viktor says. His voice is low. Yuuri cannot look away from his eyes. Viktor raises his glass, and pours a trickle of champagne slowly across Yuuri’s stomach. His skin jumps at the feel of the cool liquid against his warm skin. It starts to drip off his sides and down onto the sheets. Viktor leans down, and licks a line from third rib right down to the hollow of Yuuri’s hipbone.

Viktor makes his way across Yuuri’s abdomen, chasing the rivulets of champagne that spill across his skin.

“Will you tell me?” he mumbles into the skin, between caresses of teeth and tongue.

Yuuri tells him, fingers twined in Viktor’s hair, head thrown back against the headboard. When Viktor laughs, the vibrations resonate right through him. Or maybe it’s just the bass from downstairs.

 

It is different, this time. The first time had been faster, messier, based on no prior knowledge of each other’s bodies. It is sweeter, now.

Viktor hooks Yuuri’s leg over his shoulder, and slides gently inside of him. Yuuri’s gasp is loud, and strangled.

“Shh,” Viktor says, “darling. _Fuck_. It’s alright.”

“I know,” Yuuri whispers, “I know.”

The champagne is still sticky on Yuuri’s skin. Viktor’s thumb is smearing it as he settles Yuuri’s body against him, pausing. He closes his eyes briefly, and then begins to move.

 Yuuri’s fingers scrabble for purchase on Viktor’s back, short nails digging in slightly. Viktor hisses a gasp as he pulls back, moves forward. His hands slide across Yuuri’s champagne-slicked stomach to wrap around the base of Yuuri’s cock, and this time the gasp that tears itself from his throat is much closer to a moan. A brief smile flits across Viktor’s face, already flushed.

“I like that noise,” says, “do it again.”

“Fuck, Viktor. _Fuck.”_

Viktor’s thrusts are growing erratic, the hand stroking Yuri’s cock wet with sweat and pre-come. Yuuri writhes up into Viktor’s grasp, pulls him down for a brief, messy kiss that is more teeth than tongue.

“Vikt–” the name dies on Yuuri’s lip in a bitten off shout as he comes. Viktor is only a moment behind him.  He bits his lip, nails digging into Yuuri’s hip, before pulling out and collapsing face-down against Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Oh,” he says. Yuuri doesn’t bother to find any words. His mind is blank, and filled with dreams. Viktor is warm against his side, his breath loud in Yuuri’s ear as the tension in his body gently uncurls.

 

“I should tell you something,” he muses, later.

“You should, or you have to?”

“Oh! I mean – I asked you to tell me something. I owe you a story, a truth. Something like that.” Viktor flops back down against the pillows, tucking his arms underneath his head. Yuuri curls up beside him and presses a light kiss to his collarbone.

Viktor’s breath catches in his throat as he says: “You asked earlier about my – my family. I could tell you, if you like.”

“If you’re sure?”

“My mother is…” Viktor starts, stops. “We’re not close.”

“No?” Yuuri goes up on his elbow, to better see Viktor’s face. His head is turned away, frowning at the wall opposite.

“She’s too…” Viktor pauses again. His mouth works, and he frowns, trying to come up with the words. Eventually he just sighs.

“Shall I just tell you my story, hmm?”

“Please,” Yuuri says. His voice comes out more like a whisper.

“I do not talk about this a lot,” Viktor warns. Yuuri just shakes his head, and reaches out a hand to brush a strand of hair off of Viktor’s forehead. Viktor closes his eyes, and sighs.

“My mother is too important for me,” he says, “we are in newspapers sometimes, you know? Look at these Nikiforov’s, these icons, who have brought so much glory to Soviet Union! Which is why –” Viktor sighs. Yuuri wonders how long it has been since he has even attempted to talk about himself like this. Maybe everyone in Russia already knows his history, knows his secrets. Maybe he just doesn’t have anyone he would like to tell. Yuuri understands that, at least.

“I never knew my father, Mama never told me who he is, so it doesn’t matter,” Viktor says, “people speculated. They said oh, it must be this politician, or that one and oh, what scandal! Not because I’m bastard, but because people didn’t have gossip. They felt left out, you see? My mother is a prominent member of Party.”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Yuuri, “you mean the Communist Party?”

“No, I mean champagne-lovers party. _Yes_ , Communist party, Yuuri.” Viktor winks when he says this. Yuuri still feels a little bit embarrassed.

“But Mama doesn’t really do _politics_ ,” Viktor says, “she does … public image. She was important in the patriotic war. She won medal. People don’t forget things like this.”

“Wait, hang on,” Yuuri frowns, trying to do the maths. Patriotic war…so WWII, probably?

“She was 37 when I was born,” Viktor says wryly, guessing Yuuri’s exact conundrum. “She and my babushka were sent from Leningrad in summer of 1941. Mama wasn’t happy about this, so she ran away to Moscow and told them she wanted to be a pilot.”

“Shit,” Yuuri says. He is impressed.

“Mmn, well,” Viktor rolls over onto his side and mirrors Yuuri. “These Nikiforov’s, huh?”

“The war feels like it was so long ago,” Yuuri mumbles, “my grandparents never really talked about it.”

“My babushka didn’t either,” Viktor sighs, “but people in Russia have very long memories. No one has forgotten.”

“Do you think, when this war is over, people will remember?” Yuuri asks. Viktor shrugs.

“Will this war _ever_ be over?” he asks.

Yuuri moves the pillows underneath himself so he can lie down again. Viktor lies down again too, and they stay like that. Just looking. Yuuri wants to reach out and brush his finger along the bridge of Viktor’s nose – but then he remembers that he can, because Viktor is his now, and they are here alone with nobody to see or care. So he does. At Yuuri’s touch, Viktor’s eyes flutter closed.

“What about Yakov?” Yuuri asks, “what’s he like?”

“Yakov?” Viktor snorts, and rolls over onto his face so he pressed against Yuuri’s side. His voice is muffled as he speaks into the gap between the soft down pillows, and Yuuri’s shoulder.

“He’s grumpy, and hard. Harsh, I mean. But he has always been there. And I know he cares. In his way.”

Yuuri has always envisioned Viktor as being – not a playboy, or an uber-celebrity, but still more comfortable than this. On this ice and in interviews he is so sparkly, and full of life, but now Yuuri is starting to see very clearly that this is only a façade. The truth of Viktor has more edges, and what he has seen hints at shadows, too.

“How did you meet Yakov?” he asks. He knows part of the story, from fan magazines, but it cannot be a complete picture.

“Lilia,” Viktor says. He has not moved. Yuuri cannot see his face. “She spotted me, and took me to Kirov, and then passed me to Yakov. I have always been dancing and skating. It’s all I know.”

“I read about these programmes,” Yuuri begins, “where promising young athletes are found as children and kind of, trained…was that what happened to you?”

“Not at first,” Viktor says, “but that is what happened eventually, yes.”

Yuuri finds is strange, the idea of a state regulating so much of its citizens lives. Tentatively, he says this to Viktor. He doesn’t know what he expects Viktor’s response to be, has gauged to a certain degree that Viktor doesn’t really _like_ his home country, but still…

Viktor rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

“I ask myself this every day,” he says. “When we were driving here, I thought how easy it would be to drive to France. To just – leave. It’s, ah.” He rolls over again, onto his face, and again, until he is half on top of Yuuri. Yuuri curves his right arm around, and pats Viktor on the back of the head awkwardly.

“Yuuri, I have to tell you something,” Viktor speaks into Yuuri’s chest. He lunges back suddenly, pulls himself upright. He looks so _young_ – he is older than Yuuri, 25, but Yuuri is suddenly uncomfortably aware of just how young 25 really is.

“What is it?”

Viktor takes a deep breath. His hands press down against the duvet, knuckles white. Slowly, slowly, he lets out a breath.

“I thought that I could be happy,” he says, “but it has been so long now that I know I can’t. I can’t, I don’t –” his hands are shaking as he presses them to his face. Yuuri is self-proclaimed to be terrible with emotion. He can barely deal with his own, let alone other peoples. Once, after a rough breakup, Phichit had come home crying, and Yuuri had pretended to be asleep so he didn’t have to confront the unpleasantness of displays of emotion. It’s different with Viktor, though. Yuuri still doesn’t really know what to do, but he does his best.

He moves forward on the bed, touches Viktor’s elbow.

“It’s okay,” he says, “you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” Viktor whispers, “and that’s – you must know how afraid I am of this war and this world and of... _this_.”

It one thing to consider the risks of Viktor, and another to confront them. Here in Geneva, here in this house, this bedroom, this cocoon of silk sheets and champagne, they feel untouchable. But outside, the world is waiting, and it has teeth. After tonight, Viktor will go back to Russia, and Yuuri will go back to the United States, and their countries are at _war_.

“I do,” Yuuri says, “I try not to think about it, but I do.”

“I have to think about it all the time,” Viktor turns to him, leans into his touch even as he turns his head away, “it’s all I am aware of, when I’m walking my dog, when I’m getting on a plane, I’m thinking always of – of what if they catch me for loving you, what if I am removed from skating, what if I lose everything, I –”

Yuuri’s stomach drops, and drops again. His hand curls around Viktor’s shoulder, pulls the other man against him as he gasps for breath. Yuuri recognises this, at least.

“Just breathe. Viktor – take a deep breath.”

Viktor nods. His jaw moves as he repositions his tongue in his mouth, forcing his breathing to slow. It is a useful trick – Yuuri will have to ask to learn it sometime.

“Here,” Yuuri leans around and picks up the edge of the duvet. He tucks it around Viktor’s shoulders. Viktor nestles into it, pulls it around himself until he’s safely wrapped up.

“Do you – want to tell me what this is all about?” Yuuri asks cautiously.

“I – ah. I talked to Chris and also your sister earlier,” he says.

“Wait – really? Shit. _I’ve_ barely spoken to my sister tonight.”

“I was outside talking to Chris, and she overheard me saying about how I – I…” he takes a deep breath, “I want to defect.”

There is a moment of silence so still that it rings.

“Will you help me?” Viktor asks. “Please.”

It is such a simple word. Sitting here, wrapped in a duvet, Viktor looks painfully young. As young as Yuuri feels.

“Viktor…” Yuuri touches the tips of his fingers to Viktor’s cheekbones. His eyes flutter closed beneath Yuuri’s touch.

“I don’t know how it will work,” Yuuri says, “I don’t know anything! But I’ll help you. Of course I will.”

Viktor collapses forward into Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri isn’t expecting it and nearly tips over. He manages to get his arms around Viktor, and hold him as he shakes.

“I’m afraid,” Viktor mumbles.

Yuuri has heard stories, of course. Of the long and bloody history of the USSR. Of the purges, of people being shot and killed and put in prison, of escapes over borders, of spy planes shot down. He has heard of defectors traveling by night over mountain ranges, running across no-man’s land praying to God to avoid mines. He has heard of the secret police and the spies and shit, _shit¸_ Viktor is too good for this.

Maybe Yuuri is young to be realising his own mortality. He thinks this in abstract kind of way – _I am 23 years old. The man in my arms is 25_. He is beautiful and kind and Yuuri’s heart is full of him, so full it’s overflowing. He can’t stop the tears that come now. He has been emptied and spent, emotionally and physically wrought anew by this man, and here, in Geneva, it is suddenly all too much.

“I don’t know how,” Yuuri finds himself saying over, and over, and over again. The task is so big. But still he holds Viktor; strokes his hair.

“But I’ll try. I’ll make sure you get out. I’ll be here.”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says, a long time later. He pushes himself back, and rubs furiously at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Oh, I made you cry! No, I didn’t mean to do that!” He looks distraught.

Yuuri brushes the hair out of his eyes, and presses a kiss to Viktor’s temple.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I’m scared too. But. We’ll work it out.”

“Chris will help,” Viktor whispers, “he’s done it before. His boyfriend, you remember Matthias? He defected from East Germany. Chris passes messages across the Wall. He knows what to do.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that, but it explains a lot.”

“Figure skating is perfect excuse,” Viktor adds, “he can travel into countries others can’t. As can I, I suppose,” he adds an afterthought.

“Well, me too,” Yuuri says wryly, “Chris is the expert, though. He’s been passing our letters for months.”

“We have a code,” Viktor explains, “it’s in French. It would take a long time to explain.”

“Tell me,” Yuuri says, “we have time.”

Not long, not forever, not yet. But they have until the dawn breaks – and for now, that is enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a link to my tumblr, ](https://vntya.tumblr.com/about) thanks for reading!


	11. ten - portland

October 29th, 1986 – PORTLAND, USA

At first, Yuuri thinks that everything will be fine. There is no reason to believe that anyone suspects anything. And even if they did, friendship between foreign athletes is par for the course. Friendships between Soviet and US athletes have happened before.

Over the last few months, Yuuri’s been reading up on as much about the USSR as he can get his hands on. He knows that Glasnost is well under way. Chris had forwarded him a few newspaper clippings in Russian sent to him and translated by Viktor. They were letters to the editor from people across the country who felt able to publicly criticise the country for the first time without fear of retribution.   _There have been no consequences_ , Viktor had written, his messages coded and translated and delivered to Yuuri in Chris’ hand, _nothing at all. It has not been 1938 here for a very long time, for which I am grateful_.

The opening competition of the season is Yuuri’s best yet. He wins gold. There are two events which make shock waves in the skating world at this competition, and his victory is not one of them.  

It is mid-afternoon. The sweat is still drying on Yuuri’s skin beneath his costume. His heart is still racing from the exertion of his final skate, and it feels full to bursting with happiness. Viktor steps second onto the podium, a wry smile on his face for the cameras. There is a wreath of blue roses on his head. This is the first notable event.

Celestino grips Yuuri’s shoulder, hard.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. Then Yuuri steps forward. The podiums are always slippery and difficult to climb whilst wearing skates. He pauses, just for a moment. Viktor glances over his shoulder with a hidden smile just for him, and holds his hand out. This is the second notable event.

Of course, it is seen as being symbolic. The flash of the cameras is blinding. The living legend, offering a hand up to the rising star. Is he giving away his place? Is he acknowledging that his star is in the descendant?

Viktor’s hand is warm in his and damp with sweat. But his grip is firm.

“Congratulations, Yuuri,” he says, all formal. His eyes never leave Yuuri’s face, as he hands Yuuri up.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, “and congratulations to you too.”

They turn together to face the ice. The officials make their way across the line. First, Otabek Altin of the USSR is handed his bronze and a small bouquet of flowers. The officials approach Yuuri next. He ducks his head – _I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe this is actually real_ – and the soft silk holding the gold is slipped around his neck. He holds his arms out for the flowers, thanks them without really being aware of what he’s saying. He can’t tear his eyes away from the _gold_.

When the medals are done, and they play the national anthem, and Yuuri’s teeth have dented the soft gold, that’s when it _finally_ feels real. He’s standing on the podium with the taste of metal in his mouth, and he is absolutely crying. He doesn’t deny it later, when Phichit throttles him with a hug.

“You cried on the podium!”

“I know,” Yuuri tries to detach himself from Phichit’s headlock. His friend only holds him tighter.

“Yuuri, I’m so proud of you!”

“That’s great,” Yuuri says, “can we get off the floor now?”

Phichit finally releases him, and flops backwards, pillowing his head on his skate bag. He’s changed back into his tracksuit already. He doesn’t seem phased by the fact that he didn’t medal. Yuuri sort of wants to ask him how he’s able to be so happy for him when he didn’t place himself, but that would be way too rude. He’s known Phichit for years now, they’ve _lived_ together for years, but Yuuri’s still surprised sometimes by how completely selflessly happy he can be. Yuuri reaches out and bops Phichit’s nose with his flowers. Phichit sneezes.

“Thanks, Peach,” he says.

“For the sneeze? You’re welcome?”

“No, I meant, you know. For being a friend.”

“Aw, Yuuri,” Phichit presses a hand to his chest, and feigns swooning. “You love me!”

“Get bent,” Yuuri grumbles under his breath, but he can’t even muster a pretence of irritation. He’s just too happy. It feels like champagne inside him, bubbling and bubbling, on the brink of overflowing.

“Really.”

Yuuri and Phichit look around in surprise. Celestino is standing over them, arms crossed. He’s glowering, eyebrows drawn together into one colossal behemoth. The Unibrow of Disapproval, Phichit calls it.

“A gold medalling US figure skater, and you’re lying on the _floor_.”

“We were stretching,” Phichit explains. He grabs Yuuri’s knee possessively, and nods. Celestino just rolls his eyes.

“You have a press conference in ten minutes,” he tells Yuuri, “I recommend you at least be standing for it.”

Celestino isn’t really angry. He just likes to pretend to be mad whenever Yuuri and Phichit mess around in public, so he can continue to give off the illusion of being a stern and serious coach. He holds his hands out to his students, and pulls them to their feet. Phichit claps him on the back.

“Why?” Celestino asks.

“For being a kick ass coach,” Phichit grins. Celestino rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile. He shoos them away to the changing rooms so Yuuri can put on his tracksuit, then leads the way to the conference room. Phichit peels off to go stand at the back (“for moral support!”), and Celestino and Yuuri go to sit at the table running across the front of the room. Behind them come Otabek and Viktor, and their coaches.

Yuuri has never actually been this close to Yakov Feltsman. He examines the man surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye.

He looks his age – some 68 – with balding grey hair and a deeply lined face. He is wearing his characteristic frown, as well as his characteristic hat and blue scarf. He is standing behind Viktor, talking seriously in a constant stream of unintelligible Russian. Viktor’s face is impassive as he listens. When he sits down, he turns and says something sharply to his coach, which has Yakov blinking in – what, surprise? Anger? Yuuri can’t read his expression at all.

The press are restless. When Yuuri sits down next to Viktor there is a little frission of excitement that passes through the room. Viktor sighs under his breath, and Yuuri glances across at him. Wants to ask if he is OK, wants to discern the meaning behind the sigh. Wants to reach under the table and take his hand –

“Alright!” Andrea Wilson, the ISF escort from the Moscow tour, is chairing the conference. She calls the press to attention with a clap of her hands. Under the table, concealed by the tablecloth, Yuuri’s hand twitches away from Viktor’s. Celestino gets Yuuri’s attention, and he turns to his coach.

“I didn’t have time to say it before,” he says under his breath to Yuuri, “but the press will probably ask you about _him_. Just leave your answers vague, or don’t answer at all.”

“Wait – not answer? Isn’t that seen as –”

“Mr Nikiforov!” The first of the journalists calls from somewhere near the middle of the room. Viktor smiles at him. “What was the significance of handing Mr Katsuki up onto the podium?”

Viktor rears backwards slightly, blinking. His smile stays intact, but from this close Yuuri can see it has become forced.

“Significance?” he asks, “why must there be significance?”

“Surely there must be _some_ reason why you did it?”

“Because,” Viktor hesitates, so briefly that it almost passes without notice. Yuuri sees his hand twitch, and notices that his throat has gone dry. He reaches for his water.

“Mr Katsuki is a friend of mine,” Viktor says, “and I am happy for him to win.”

There is instant uproar.

“How long have you two been friends?” “When did you meet?” “What’s it like being friends with a Russian, Yuuri?”

Wilson calls for silence, and selects the next journalist. A middle-aged woman with greying red hair, she looks between Viktor and Yuuri with a frown.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit unusual, claiming that an American and a Soviet skater can be friends?”

Yuuri stirs uncomfortably in his seat – not so much because of the question itself, nor for the truth that he and Viktor are concealing, but more for the way she says it. She’s making eye contact with him, and he knows that she disapproves.

“It is not so unusual, surely?” Viktor takes the question off Yuuri’s hands and laughs as he answers, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It will not be picked up by the cameras, but Yuuri can see that Viktor’s jaw is tense. Every now and again, the one finger on his hand will drum against the table, the only visible tell of Viktor’s annoyance.

“People from other countries are being friends all the time. I have friends from Poland, Switzerland. Now I have American friends, too.”

And here, of all people, of all places, Otabek interjects.

“Figure skating is small sport,” he says, “everyone friends with everyone. Not problem.”

Yuuri has never actually heard him speak before. His voice is rougher than Yuuri expected, and his accent unsurprisingly thick. Viktor, too, is surprised. He leans across to Otabek, and says something to him quietly. Otabek inclines his head in acknowledgement, and Viktor looks thoughtful. Taking the hint, the journalists start asking other questions, but it is obvious from the curious looks that they want to ask more about Yuuri and Viktor.

Yuuri doesn’t speak much – his heart is still too heavy in his throat. He just drinks glass after glass of water and tries to calm his racing pulse. He wishes now he’d had time to debrief properly with Celestino – not that he regrets spending time lolling around on the floor with his best friend, just that it just _might_ have been more practical to be prepared. As it is, he’s facing the prospect of an unpleasant talk with his coach about the whole affair.

Yuuri takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to quash the roiling in his stomach and the tremor in his hands. He searches for Phichit at the back of the room. He’s standing with his arms folded, frowning at the proceedings. When he sees Yuuri looking at him, he smiles and gives the thumbs up. This is endlessly comforting to Yuuri. No matter what happens – and surely, now, things will happen – Phichit will have his back.

The next question asked is about the gold, and is directed at Yuuri.

“I’m so grateful,” Yuuri says. “I’ve been training hard, but the gold always felt like an abstract rather than something I would ever achieve. I’m very happy with myself.”

“Do you think you’ve peaked too early in the series?”

“I don’t think _winning_ is peaking too early.” Yuuri is offended at the question. He’s also annoyed. It’s not something he’d considered up until now, that perhaps winning a gold so early in the competition would mean that he’s already done his best skates.

“We’ve timed Yuuri’s training and programmes so that he’ll only get better as the season progresses,” Celestino answers curtly, “one gold medal already shows that clearly we were on the right track.”

The next question is directed to Otabek, and the question after that to Viktor. Yuuri and Celestino answer a few more questions about the gold, and Yuuri’s training schedule, and their expectations for Yuuri’s next competition: the Fujifilm Trophy held in Frankfurt in November. When the conference wraps up, Yuuri sighs in relief. He hears Viktor doing the same thing, and they look at each other. It is a brief glance only, because it must be, but it’s comforting.

The Chicago skaters have a plane to catch, but there is a brief cool down period in which Yuuri has a few moments to gather his things. Viktor and Otabek follow him to the lockers, a strange little vanguard against the lingering press, event staff, and skaters.

In the changing rooms, Otabek busies himself with his things – but not before Yuuri intercepts the significant look that he levels at Viktor. Viktor comes to stand beside Yuuri, and again looks thoughtfully at the other Soviet skater. But then he shakes his head slightly, and turns his attention to Yuuri.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” he says, which is absolutely not what Yuuri expects him to say at all.

“What do you mean?”

“I should have spoken to you before I pulled you onto podium,” Viktor looks genuinely distressed. “They asked questions, so I said we were friends. I didn’t ask you –”

“No, it’s okay!” Yuuri says quickly. He reaches for Viktor’s hand, pauses, and then continues. Viktor squeezes his hand tightly. “It was good.”

“It was?”

“Yeah. I’m glad you did it. It’s Glasnost, after all.”

 

How many times will they say it to themselves? Yuuri rolls the word around in his head as he walks to the cars waiting for them outside the rink. Glasnost is a prayer: it will redeem them of everything that they are. But sometimes Yuuri wonders if maybe they are putting too much faith in the abstract. Yuuri doesn’t even speak Russian, doesn’t understand the word the way that Viktor does. All he knows is the desperation running through Viktor’s veins; the hard edges of his love, where the gold has worn away and all that is left is the man.

He gets into a taxi with Andrew, who has given him one or two strange looks in the last twenty minutes. Yuuri would have preferred to avoid the scene which he knows is awaiting him, but Phichit has already gotten into a cab with Anna. He has no choice – and he can’t avoid Andrew forever.

“So,” Andrew says, once they are on the road.

 _Oh, God, here it comes_.

“Since when are you, like, friends with Viktor _Nikiforov_?”

“Ha,” Yuuri laughs awkwardly, “I don’t know, since, like, Tokyo? Kinda?”

“Oh,” Andrew hums to himself, and glances out of the window. Yuuri has the distinct impression that it’s only to avoid eye contact with him.

“Mmn.”

“So, like, did you two meet at the banquet, or what?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri fiddles with his seatbelt, “I was drunk, so I talked to him. He’s really nice.”

“And you’ve been friends with him for all this time, like two whole years, and you never thought to mention it? He’s kind of the god of skating, which you do know. And you used to be, like, in love with him”

“Well, yeah,” Yuuri squirms, “that’s why I talked to him when I was drunk. I would have been way too shy to do it otherwise.”

“And he didn’t find it weird that this drunk American dude was salivating over him?” Andrew says it like it’s a joke, and he’s smiling, but Yuuri knows it’s not a joke. Is Andrew jealous? Suspicious? Yuuri doesn’t know, and it makes him nervous.

“He did,” Yuuri says, “but it’s no biggie. We just started talking at competitions and stuff.” Although it isn’t technically a lie – they _do_ talk at competitions, because that’s the only time they can see each other – the enormity of the truths which he is suppressing are making Yuuri feel nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the anxiety.

“Oh right, like that time in Moscow where you ran away from the hotel,” Andrew says, with a laugh, all his usual charming self.

“Oh yeah,” Yuuri says, “that was just incidental, though. You know what I’m like. I like to run, and stuff.”

“Sure,” Andrew falls silent for a moment.

“So are you two a thing?” he asks suddenly.

“Wha – no!” Yuuri squeaks. The taxi driver glances into the rear view mirror suspiciously, and Yuuri sinks down further. “We’re not.”

“Sure,” Andrew says with a smile, “if you say so. Must be weird though, being, uh, _friends_ with him when you’re totally in love with him.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Yuuri lies, “because, like, yeah, you’re right, it would be weird to be in love with him in a hero-worship-py kind of way when I know him personally.”

“Yeah,” Andrew looks down at his pants, and picks at a thread. “I guess so. Maybe you could introduce me sometime, huh? He’s a legend.”

“Yeah, sure,” Yuuri says. Anything to get Andrew off his back. “That would be cool.”

“Cool,” Andrew says. He smiles, that same smile that used to make Yuuri feel butterflies. Now it is nothing but hollow.

*******

 

Despite his gold medal, things in the Katsuki household continue as normal. When Yuuri returns home from his dorm for the weekend, his sister drags him out for a driving lesson.

“Oh my God,” Mari says, for the twenty-third time, “put your foot on the _clutch_!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Yuuri apologises miserably, over the audible crunching of the car going out of gear.

“No wonder Dad wanted me to teach you,” she says, “you probably give him a heart attack. You’re a terrible driver!”

“That’s why I’m trying to learn,” Yuuri sighs. Another car zips past, beeping.

“Maybe we should teach you drive out of the county,” Mari says, “that way you’d probably be less likely to cause a crash.”

“I haven’t caused a crash yet,” Yuuri says through gritted teeth as he changes lanes.

“That was good,” Mari says, somewhat grudgingly.

“You don’t need to sound so mad about it.”

“I just _cannot_ fathom how you are _so_ bad at this!”

“Neither can I,” Yuuri says. Mari directs him to turn right. He has his road rules down fine – he just somehow lacks the ability to change gears, change lanes, and just generally control tin can that is his father’s car. He says as much to Mari, who snorts with laughter. She’s glancing in the mirrors a lot, and seems a little distracted.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Pull over.”

“Why, what did I do?”

“Nothing, I just want to check something,” she says vaguely. There’s a car park just around the corner, and Yuuri parks (with some difficulty – Mari clutches the door of the car and rolls her eyes). Then she looks in the left side mirror again, and frowns.

“Do you see that car that just pulled over behind us?”

Yuuri glances in the rear view mirror (for the first time in some twenty minutes).

“You mean the blue Vauxhall?”

“Nah, behind it – that black Cortina.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“It’s been following us,” Mari says grimly.

“What – seriously?” Yuuri laughs. Mari turns to him, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed.

“I’ve been looking in the mirrors, since I know you don’t,” she says. Even when she’s being serious, she can’t seem to resist the jab. “It’s been making every turn, every lane change. It’s too weird that they’ve stopped now.”

Mari has many annoying personality flaws, but lying is not one of them. Yuuri stops smiling. He feels all anxious and hot, like a little kid about to get told off by the teacher.

“What do we do?” Yuuri asks.

“Carry on as normal, I think,” Mari says, “no one’s gotten out or anything. I guess they’re just following us for the sake of it?”

“I don’t think it’s for the sake of it,” Yuuri says. He rests his head on the steering wheel, and tries to focus his breathing. He just wants to go home, and get into bed, and maybe not get out again for a week. Possibly two.

“No,” Mari agrees, “probably not. It’s most likely because…”

“Because?!”

“Oh, you _know_ ,” Mari sighs, “the whole Viktor thing in Portland.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you’re dense sometimes,” Mari sighs. “Swap. I want to drive us home.”

Yuuri gets out of the car and scurries around to the passenger side. Mari doesn’t bother getting out her door, and instead clambers over the gear stick to settle into the driver’s seat. Yuuri can’t resist the urge to look at the Cortina. The windows are tinted; he has no idea who’s inside – or if they’re watching him.

 

Over the next few days, Yuuri is particularly on edge. The drive home is uneventful, and when he goes back to the dorm he tells Phichit all about it. He’s constantly on the look out for people who might be following him, wonders if he’s slipping into paranoia when he sees the black car everywhere he turns. Phichit tells him it’s probably a combination of both – it’s not super likely the black car followed him when he snuck out of training to go to the grocery store to buy chocolate – but it’s not entirely just baseless paranoia, either. On Friday, when Yuuri leaves to go home again, Phichit informs him that he’s definitely seen the car once or twice. Yuuri feels ill at ease on the bus, constantly checking the people around him. It’s not a nice feeling.

He’d hesitated over burning his letters from Viktor, too. In the end, Phichit had dissuaded him, saying they’d be good evidence that Viktor wanted to defect, if it came to it, so long as they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. _That_ had just seemed overly ridiculous, like a line from a 60’s spy film – but he got Phichit’s meaning, well enough. It’s not likely that a Soviet spy will come clambering in Yuuri’s window looking for evidence of Viktor’s defection, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to be careful.

 

The phone rings on Saturday morning. Yuuri’s father has had to visit some contractors for the morning, and dropped his mother off at the grocery store on his way. It is just he and Mari in the house – she’s listening to her Walkman at the table, and working on some figures for the inn. Yuuri’s lying on the floor, gently stretching his hamstrings, which are feeling a little tight after the mornings training. Not tight enough to need to be iced again, but some gentle stretching is always a good idea. The TV is on in the background, playing some random cartoons which he is half paying attention to.

At first, Yuuri thinks Mari will get it, but after four rings he heaves himself to his feet, mutes the TV, and picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yuuri Katsuki?”

“Speaking?”

“I am calling to inform you that you are being watched.”

Yuuri nearly drops the phone in shock. Evidently, the person talking to him doesn’t expect a response, because they keep talking. Mari, who had glanced up when he rose, sees the look on Yuuri’s face and leaves the room hastily. Her headphones tangle on the edge of the chair, and her Walkman clatters to the floor. He hears a click on the line as she picks up the extension in their parent’s bedroom.

“You have been identified as a potential threat to American security. Do not attempt to leave the country, or you will be arrested.”

“I’m not,” Yuuri burbles, “If this is because I have Russian friends, I can explain that –”

There is silence on the other end of the line, followed by dial tone.

When Mari comes barrelling back into the living room, Yuuri has slithered to the floor and put his head between his knees. Everything inside him is roiling, hot and sick and afraid. He never thought this would happen, he never thought the risks through, oh God _oh God_ …

“Yuuri. Yuuri!”

Mari’s sharp voice cuts through the fog of panic, and he looks up. She’s crouched in front on him, sitting back on her heels.

“Pull yourself together! We knew this would happen.”

“We did?”

“Well. I did,” Mari sucks at her teeth, and glowers.  “The stupid feds don’t know shit.”

“I have to tell them! I have to explain that it’s Viktor that wants to defect! It’s not me!”

“I know, dumbass, I know,” Mari sits down beside him with a sigh, and puts her arm around his shoulder. It’s as much for her comfort as for his, Yuuri knows. He can feel the tremors rocking through her as he rests his head on her shoulder.

“What do we do?” he asks.

“Fucked if I know. I said I’d help, I didn’t say I knew _how_.”

It’s not like there’s anyone they can ask. There isn’t a help group for friends and lovers of potential Soviet defectors. And Yuuri doubts he can get Baryshnikov on the phone. And then the whole ‘do not attempt to leave the country’ thing, which – Shit!

“I’m going to Germany in two weeks!” Yuuri yelps. “They told me not to leave the country, but – oh, God!”

“Yuuri,” Mari turns, and hold him by the shoulders. There’s a deep line in between her eyebrows, and her mouth is downturned. “I’m going to ask you this, because no one else has. I hoped that it wouldn’t come down to this, but it looks as if it may have. This thing you have going with Viktor – are you prepared to lose your career for it? For him?”

“Yes.”

Yuuri has had many doubts in his life. Every time he steps onto the ice, he doubts. In conversation and competition, he is plagued by doubts and uncertainty and anxiety. Everything he _is_ is centred on the ice, and it always has been, until –

Well. Until now.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Yuuri admits quietly, “the fact that I might have to leave figure skating. If not because the – the FBI think I’m a spy,” he chokes on these words a little, and Mari’s mouth quirks, “then because I’m gay. If the ISU judges found out, my career would be ruined. I’m skating on borrowed time.”

“How many midnight panic attacks have you had about this?”

“Too many.”

They both laugh. But then Yuuri’s smile fades, and he sighs.

“It’s always been about Viktor, you know? He inspired me to skate, to keep skating, and now it’s different.”

“It’s not about Viktor the skater,” Mari helpfully finishes, “it’s about Viktor the person.”

“Well, yeah.”

“But what about _you_?” Mari presses. “You can’t just make every decision in life based around your boyfriend, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Yuuri gets up so he can sit back down on the sofa. Mari stays kneeling on the floor, peering up at him. The frown is still there. Yuuri notices for the first time how much older his sister looks. She is aging without him noticing. So much has happened in the last two years. But it’s been tunnel vision, all of it. Just Viktor, and himself, and the ice. But the world has moved on without him, and suddenly it feels like all that time has been wasted. He never noticed the lines at the corner of his sisters’ eyes, or the new grey in his parent’s hair, and…

“Hey,” Mari’s voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away, “it’s okay, Yuuri.”

Her hands on his shoulders, pulling him against her. She tells him to breathe. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest, matches his breath to hers as reality begins to settle in again.

“What am I going to do?” his voice is muffled into her shoulder.

Mari sighs, and Yuuri looks up at her face. Her mouth is scrunched up, but her jaw is set.

“I think we should start by talking to Celestino.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last update, friends! Happy new year!  
> [Here's a link to my tumblr - come chat to me, or buy me a coffee, or, idk, admire all the dragon age fanart I've been reblogging lately (oops)?](https://vntya.tumblr.com/)  
> Oh, also - [these](https://shemakesmeforget.tumblr.com/post/167249052658/the-fall-of-this-empire-will-be-loud-by-vntya) [two](http://ilreleonewikia13.tumblr.com/post/167422081861/yuri-on-ice-meme-favorite-fanfic-the-fall-of) moodboards have been for the fic, and they're so cool!  
> ALSO- thanks to my regular readers who have responded to this with variations on the theme of *crying emoji*. I just wanted to thank y’all especially for sticking with me despite my irregular posting schedule !! y’all are the best <3


	12. eleven - frankfurt

November 13th, 1986 – FRANKFURT AM MAIN, WEST GERMANY

 

They announced that he had an injury. It wouldn’t really _do_ to say ‘Yuuri Katsuki has been temporarily banned from leaving the United States because he may or may not be boinking a Soviet figure skater, natch’. Not that Yuuri’s specific relationship with Viktor was common knowledge. Friends, apparently, was bad enough.

Chris lights his cigarette with a sigh. Mari Katsuki’s flight was due to have landed an hour ago – she will be here any minute now, presumably. The hotel room is poorly lit. In the faint gloom permeating through the drawn curtains, he can faintly see the slumbering shape of Matthias, and more clearly the bright red letters of the clock on the bedside table beside him. The TV, muted, adds a faint blue-ish glow to the room, at odds with the yellow of the walls and carpet.

But still, it’s a much nicer hotel room than any that might be found in East Germany. Chris recalls the one in Leipzig with a shudder. Concrete block walls painted with peeling white paint and slimy with condensation, red carpet that might once have been plush but was now worn thin and covered in all sort of oddly ominous stains...

There is a sudden honking and cacophony outside. Chris twitches back a curtain and peers down at the street. A taxi has come careening to a halt in the middle of the street, having been rear-ended by a red car who had been following. The drivers of both are getting out of their respective vehicles, yelling at each other. The driver of the taxi, a fat, balding man, is gesticulating wildly.

Out of the passenger side of the taxi emerges a tall woman with bleached hair. She folds her arms on the top of the taxi, watching the scene. Chris can’t see her face from so far away, but he’s quite confident she has her eyebrows raised sardonically. She seems to be that sort of woman. These are the sorts of women Viktor seems to attract, Chris muses as he stubs out his cigarette and shrugs into his jacket. Strong, powerful women who know what they are about, who can stand their ground in a fight.

From everything Chris has seen of Viktor’s friend Klaudia, years ago when she was still on the circuits, she is the definition of this sort of woman. Viktor’s mother, of course, is much the same, although with about half the capacity for human emotion than even Klaudia’s mere teaspoon full. Mari seems a more tempered, logical sort, but not without drive. And of course, not without rather a sense of adventure.

Chris prefers his women a _little_ sweeter, and perhaps a little less inclined to wander into war zones.

 

He meets Mari in the lobby. She’s got a duffle bag over her shoulder, passport and documents clutched into her left hand. There’s a camera around her neck. When she sees him approaching her, she shuffles her feet and seems a bit flustered. Chris smiles when he reaches her.

“Miss Katsuki,” he says, bending over her hand again, since it had caused _such_ a good reaction last time. She blushes this time but manages to respond with a good degree of measured calm.

“It’s good to see you again, Christophe.”

“Chris, please. Have you checked in?”

“Not yet, no,” Mari readjusts the duffle bag, “I only just arrived – how did you know to meet me?”

“I saw the little incident,” Chris tilts his chin towards the street, and Mari snorts.

“I’ve never seen such poor driving in my life – and I had to teach Yuuri! That asshole behind us was tailgating, and so the driver of the taxi was going deliberately slowly to piss him off, talking on his phone all the while, no idea what he was talking about, and then suddenly BAM!” She flings her arms wide. “Impact! It was crazy.”

“At least he got you to your destination before he crashed,” Chris says dryly. Mari makes a face.

“Suppose so,” she says. There is a brief, awkward silence.

“I’ll just, um, check in,” she says, and scurries away.

Chris meanders over to the fish tank, and peers closer. There are only five fish that he can see, although the little sign next to it indicates that there ought to be at least eight. Perhaps the three missing goldfish are hiding in the garish little castle that is nestled amongst the pebbles.

Chris looks up to see Mari hovering awkwardly by his shoulder.

“Why don’t you go and get freshened up?” he suggests, “I’ll wake Matthias, and we can meet you at the bar.”

“Sounds good,” Mari tucks her duffle bag more securely against her shoulder, and heads not for the elevators but for the stairs. Odd, Chris thinks. Maybe she’s one of those strange fitness people who like to take the stairs everywhere instead of the elevator.

When he gets back to his room, Matthias is awake and in the shower. Chris opens the curtains and tidies the room a bit while he waits.

“Your friend has arrived?” Matthias asks when he gets out of the shower. His brown hair is still plastered to his head.

“Mmn,” Chris finishes patting down the duvet, “I told her we would meet her in the bar.”

“Good,” Matthias stretches, “I always like to have a drink before I start discussing politics.”

 

***

 

Your average German bar in 1986 is, Chris muses, likely a hotbed of political activity. Neutrality isn’t something people tended to find particularly fun. Despite being bland and entirely typical of a generic hotel, the bar has a few interesting characters in it. The bartender is the first of them – he might have been attractive, if not for the mohawk. Nobody wants to knock the bottom out of someone if there’s a risk they might be blinded.

Sitting by the taps are a pair of women in tailored black pantsuits. As Chris passes, he hears one of them say: “…and of course no one was going to _know_ the Geiger was screaming it’s fucking head off…”

It’s almost interesting enough to make Chris turn back. But that would be rude. Sitting around one of the tables, a gathering of young adults appear to be holding some sort of impromptu meeting. Chris doesn’t want to get too close to _that_. Teenaged radicals are excellent, but a little _loud_ in public spaces for his tastes just now. It’s not that he’s cynical or jaded, he tries to persuade himself as he orders his seltzer water, it’s just that, well, he has actual business to be getting on with. It’s all well and good to get optimistic about the German spring, but first people would have to get over their fear of landmines. And that simply wouldn’t be sensible.

Matthias joins him a few minutes later and orders a screwdriver.

“Really?” Chris asks, eyebrows raised. Matthias shrugs his shoulder.

“Alcohol imitates life, hm?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me!”

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Mari pulls out the last remaining chair, and flings herself into it. She’s drinking beer.

“Making the most of Germany?” Matthias nods towards her drink. The corner of Mari’s mouth lifts in a smirk.

“What kind of tourist would I be if I drank, like, scotch or something?”

“A boring one,” Matthias deadpans, “or one who was visiting Scotland.”

“Alright, ladies,” Chris sets his glass down with a clink, “let’s get planning.”

Mari glances around, looking for Soviet agents, most likely.

“Aren’t we a bit exposed?”

“The real world has a lot less bugs and spies than all those terrible propaganda films would have you believe,” Chris tells her, “we’re exactly as free and unobserved here as you would be anywhere at home.”

“Not that free and unobserved,” Mari says darkly.

“True enough,” Chris agrees, “but still, it’s fine. East Germany, USSR, maybe different. Here, don’t worry.”

“There are Stasi everywhere you turn in the East,” Matthias tells her, “but I’ve only met a couple here!”

Chris kicks him under the table. Mari surveys them both blankly for a moment, but then her mouth curls up, and to Chris’ surprise, she laughs. She has a very unladylike laugh – a sort of slow hoot, interspersed with intermittent snorts. When she’s finished with her little display, she leans back in her chair and tucks her leg up, cradling her beer in her lap.

“Ok, so here’s the deal,” she says, “or like, what Yuuri and I have sort of worked out. We think people have been opening our mail, both in and outgoing. Our calls are probably being tapped, because there’s this weird clicking noise sometimes? Although most of the calls from our house are just Mom calling her friends in Detroit so, I don’t that they’re exactly gonna get a lot out of that. People have totally been following us, although it’s not super invasive and I don’t _think_ they do it all the time. But I’m not exactly trained in this stuff, I can’t be sure.”

“And Yuuri hasn’t been able to get any visas?” Matthias leans forward to ask.

Mari shakes her head. “Nope. We got told he wasn’t allowed to leave, but Celestino tried his best anyway, y’know, pulling rank or whatever. Totally didn’t work. The visas just get denied. I have no idea why they let me out.”

“I don’t think you are all a very high priority,” Chris muses, “what good would your brother make as a spy anyway? None. He has not government secrets, and they can’t really care if he defects, other than perhaps it would be shameful. Maybe that’s why they’re trying to scare you.”

“It’s just so bunk,” Mari grumbles, “surely it would make more sense if we were getting called in Russian like,” she puts on a terrible Russian accent and twists her face up, “stop fraternising with Viktor Nikiforov! Or else we will kill you!”

“Terrible accent,” Chris says, “not so terrible concept.”

“Yes, terrible concept,” Matthias corrects, “but not entirely unlikely.”

“Oh,” Mari pauses, “shit. I was only kidding.”

“Hard to know,” Chris makes a moue, and looks thoughtfully around the bar, “I want to say that maybe we should tell the authorities in the US that Viktor wants to go to them, only it may get out somehow.”

“No guarantee of confidentiality,” Matthias agrees.

“We can tell them closer to the time, maybe,” Mari suggests, “once Viktor is already in the country. Which – what, Cincinnati? Is that the next US-based competition?”

“Yes,” Chris and Matthias say at the same time.

“What if they don’t let him out of Russia, though?” Mari twists her glass around in her hands, “I mean, he’s got to be under suspicion, right?”

“He is, I think,” Chris says, “but you underestimate just how famous he is there. He is their darling. They could stop him if they really wanted, but Viktor is very good at framing compliments he gives the government like insults. People wouldn’t like it if he was unable to compete internationally, and they would know why.”

“There’s speculation this could be his last season,” Matthias adds, “he’s getting old. People want to see him end on a good note. It would be unsatisfactory for him to simply drift away from skating and not even get to compete at World’s.”

“If he puts one toe out of line, they will stop him,” Chris says, “so it is dependent on his good behaviour, but yes. If all goes well there shouldn’t really be any reason to stop him.”

The three of them sit silently together for a moment, before Matthias rises to collect more drinks. Three of the same. Mari finishes off her first beer hastily.

 

***

 

Training begins the next day. Chris is at the rink from dawn to dusk, preparing for the competition which will begin the day following. Matthias spends the day showing Mari around Frankfurt. He wants to take her clubbing, to which Chris acquiesces with a sigh (“Not because I don’t want you to go out, darlings, but only because I’m _very_ jealous I can’t go with you!”).

Everybody is very quiet at breakfast on Saturday. Chris, drawn inward, is focusing on his routine, his body. His calf is a little tight, he’ll need to make sure that is stretched properly. His figures have been excellent this season – now he’s that little bit older, his ankles are stronger, he thinks. And at least he’s never had a lower leg injury, only that terrible broken arm in ’83, and of course the thigh injury last year, but that recovered alright…

Matthias and Mari are silent only because they are hungover. Mari clutches her cup of black coffee to her face, inhaling the scent, but taking only a tentative sip every few minutes. Matthias reclines in his chair, legs sprawled under the table, with a hand over his eyes. Chris would think he was sleeping, if not for the fact that he groans under his breath every thirty seconds or so.

“How were the clubs?” Chris asks, when he remembers to.

“Excellent,” Mari says, after a long pause in which she tries to work out if she is being directly addressed or not. “Matthias took me to, uh. Um, the…oh, I can’t pronounce it. I’m too hungover for German.”

“Gay,” Matthias supplies helpfully, without opening his eyes.

“Were you titillated?” Chris asks Mari – he doesn’t need to ask Matthias, knowing full well the answer.

“A bit. I knew Berlin was an anything-goes sort of place, but I didn’t know it would be like that, like, outside of Berlin, too.”

“Ooh, darling,” Chris takes a sip of his orange juice, “you haven’t seen _anything_ until you’ve seen Berlin.”

 

***

 

Matthias, God bless him, drags himself to the rink to watch Chris do his figures later in the morning. Mari, who has far more sense, goes back to bed. Chris doesn’t usually bother watching other people performing their figures – it’s _boring_! He has better things to do, like flirt with all the German skaters, and keep a watchful eye on Viktor from a distance.

Ensconced as always in his entourage, Viktor doesn’t talk to any foreign skaters today. He spends most of the day pacing or stretching, with headphones on. He takes them off sometimes to talk to Yakov, or to a slight, blonde boy Chris thinks _might_ be Yuri Plisetsky. He sees Chris on the other side of the rink once and raises his hand in a wave. Chris waves back, and the small blonde boy turns and fixes him with an oddly ferocious glare. Had he been any closer, Chris thinks, his clothes probably would have caught on fire from the heat of it. What a ferocious young boy.

The female Soviet skaters are kept on a slightly looser leash. Chris walks past carefully and makes sure to have a few things fall out of his bag, very strategically. The young Mila comes chasing after him, waving his monogrammed water bottle excitedly. With her wild red curls falling over her pale face, she looks like something out of a fairy-tale.

“Christophe! You have dropped this!” She hands it back to him so forcefully that he drops it again, and they smack heads trying to pick it up. On the ground, in a mess of bag, water bottle, and figure skater, Chris surreptitiously hands Mila the books he has brought her. The grin she flashes him is radiant as she tucks the books carefully into her own bag.

“Thank you,” she whispers as she stands back up.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, as she hands him his water bottle for the second time. Tipping her a massive wink, he strolls away, but can’t resist glancing back over his shoulder to watch as she skips merrily back to her seat, where she’s waiting for her turn at the figures. She tosses her bag down on the seat next to another Soviet skater with brown hair, and the two put their heads together and begin to talk. Chris can’t hide a grin as he walks away. Smuggling romance novels into the USSR isn’t even _difficult_ – they really could make it harder for him.

 

Chris’ own figures go brilliantly, of course. As do Viktor’s naturally, and the blonde child who is indeed Plisetsky, who has finally gained admittance into the senior division at the ripe age of 15. The three of them have an equal top score. This isn’t surprising, but Chris can’t help but wish Viktor and Plisetsky could have had at least a _wobble_. But then, Chris reminds himself, after this season ends, he probably won’t ever have to compete against Viktor again. A sobering thought, which makes him feel equal parts glad and oddly nostalgic. Maybe figure skating would be less of a challenge without Viktor? What would there be to compete for, if not to beat the famous Viktor Nikiforov? Viktor the friend and Viktor the competitor at times seem like two different people, and it is disquietingly easy for Chris to discard Viktor the friend when a competition is ongoing. Viktor the competitor is the focus now.

Not that this stops Chris from hugging Viktor good luck when he gets the chance the next day, at their short program. Viktor grins quickly at him over his shoulder as he moves towards the ice, giving him the thumbs up in acknowledgement. His eyes are sparkling as he looks at the ice – how rarely Chris sees him look so happy and determined these days. Only as he is stepping onto the ice does he ever truly come alive. In fact, Chris muses, as he watches Viktor’s infuriatingly perfect skate, he has seen Viktor looking this happy and focused off the ice only once, at his party in Geneva.

And then the bastard lands a flawless triple-flip-triple-axel-triple-salchow combination, God damn him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's uh, been awhile! But I meant it when I said I was gonna finish this fic, gdi!!!!!!!!  
> Thanks for all those of y'all who have stuck around, and to the newer-ish readers whose comments reminded me to work on this damn thing!!


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